Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The air in Shiro’s room was suffocating, dense with an unnatural stillness that pressed against his skin like a second layer. His breath came in shallow gasps as he stirred, something sharp biting into his wrists. He tried to move, to shift, but his body didn’t obey. His limbs were pinned, his muscles pulling uselessly against bonds that didn’t give.

His eyes flew open, his heart pounding in his chest as he took in the oppressive darkness. The room was shrouded in shadow, the faintest sliver of moonlight slipping through the edges of the curtains, but it wasn’t enough to illuminate anything.

Shiro struggled against the restraints, his wrists and ankles bound tightly to the bedposts, the rope digging into his skin with every movement. He tugged harder, testing the limits, but the knots held firm. He was trapped, every instinct in his body screamed at him to fight, to free himself.

His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths as his mind scrambled to process what was happening. The fabric of his shirt clung to his back, damp with cold sweat, but it was still there—his shirt, his pants. He was still clothed.

A faint, bitter relief settled over him, though it did little to quiet the rising tide of fear that churned in his stomach. He forced himself to breathe deeply, his mind racing to assess his situation.

The quiet wasn’t just still—it was wrong, charged with an undercurrent of something he couldn’t name. Then, breaking the oppressive silence, came a sound.

Clink.

The faint chime of glass meeting wood.

Shiro’s head snapped toward the source of the sound, his heart hammering in his chest. His eyes scanned the darkness, searching for something, anything, and then he saw it: a faint silhouette in the corner of the room.

Someone was sitting in his recliner.

The figure was barely more than a shadow, their posture relaxed, almost lazy. One arm rested on the armrest, while the other lifted something to their lips—a glass. The soft clink came again as they set it back down on the small table beside them.

Shiro’s blood turned to ice.

The metallic glint came next, a faint shimmer that caught what little light there was. His gaze locked onto it—a knife, spinning slowly between pale fingers.

The blade caught the moonlight with every rotation, its polished surface reflecting brief, fleeting flashes across the walls. The movements were slow, deliberate, and unnervingly casual, as though the figure wasn’t just holding a weapon—they were playing with it.

“Who’s there?” Shiro rasped, his voice cracking in the silence.

His throat felt dry, the words clawing their way out as he forced himself to speak. His gaze remained fixed on the silhouette, his pulse thundering in his ears.

The figure didn’t respond. They simply kept spinning the knife, the faint whisper of metal slicing through the air like a taunt.

Shiro’s chest tightened, his stomach churning as his mind scrambled for an explanation—any explanation—but the truth was already there, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts.

The figure shifted, reaching for the glass of wine again. They took another sip, their movements slow and unhurried, as though they had all the time in the world.

“Who is it?” Shiro demanded, louder this time, though his voice still trembled.

The figure set the glass down with a quiet clink and rose from the recliner with a deliberate slowness that made every moment stretch into an eternity. Each step closer brought with it a suffocating wave of dread, the air in the room thickening until it was almost impossible to breathe. Shiro’s pulse pounded in his ears, his body tensing against the unyielding restraints as the figure loomed closer, their shadow stretching over him like a dark omen.

When they reached the edge of the bed, they paused, their hand resting lightly on the mattress. The faint moonlight filtering through the curtains finally caught their features as they climbed onto the bed, straddling Shiro’s waist with a terrifying ease.

Shiro’s breath hitched as recognition struck him. His lips parted, his voice barely more than a whisper, trembling with disbelief and dread. “Matt…”

The name hung in the air like an accusation, a desperate plea for this to be some kind of twisted mistake.

Matt leaned down, his face mere inches from Shiro’s. The familiar features—those Shiro knew better than his own—were there, but warped. His smile was too wide, too sharp, and his eyes held a gleam that sent chills down Shiro’s spine.

“Miss me?” Matt’s voice was soft, almost playful, like they were just old friends reuniting after years apart.

Shiro’s throat tightened, his mind racing as he stared at Matt’s face, searching for something—anything—that could explain what was happening.

Before he could speak, before he could even fully process the moment, Matt leaned in further, his lips crashing onto Shiro’s in a kiss that was searing and unrelenting. The familiarity of it sent a jolt through Shiro, a confusing mix of longing, betrayal, and anger flooding his senses.

But then pain.

It tore through his side like fire, sharp and excruciating, cutting through every other sensation like a knife—because it was a knife.

Shiro grunted into Matt’s mouth, his body instinctively jerking against the bonds as the cold steel buried itself deep into his left side. His features twisted in agony, his chest heaving as he fought against the restraints holding him down.

Matt pulled back slightly, his expression alight with something cruel and fascinated. His hand gripped the handle of the blade, twisting it slowly as he watched Shiro’s face contort with pain.

“You took too long to visit me, Takashi,” Matt murmured, his voice low, almost tender, though the malice beneath it was unmistakable.

Shiro’s breaths came in short, uneven gasps as he writhed beneath Matt, his body straining uselessly against the ropes. Blood seeped from the wound, warm and sticky against his skin.

Matt’s smile widened as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against Shiro’s in a mockery of affection. “So,” he whispered against him, his tone almost intimate, “I decided to visit you.”

The words sent a fresh wave of fury and despair through Shiro, but his strength was waning, his muscles trembling from the effort of resistance.

Matt pulled back just enough to tilt his head, his gaze sweeping over Shiro with a strange mixture of affection and amusement. “I apologize for the restraints,” he said, his voice light, as though discussing something mundane. “But let’s be honest—you’d overpower me in an instant if you were free.”

He pressed a kiss to the corner of Shiro’s mouth, the gesture disturbingly gentle. Then his lips curled into a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “And given that I’m here for a little payback,” he continued, his voice dropping to a mocking purr, “I figured you wouldn’t be thrilled to see me.”

Matt’s free hand glided up to Shiro’s face, his palm pressing lightly against Shiro’s cheek with a disconcerting tenderness. His thumb brushed over the sharp line of Shiro’s jaw, tracing a path that might have been comforting if not for the searing pain of the blade still buried deep in his side.

Shiro’s breath stuttered, his chest heaving as Matt leaned in closer, their faces mere inches apart. The intimacy of the moment felt wrong—twisted— Shiro was powerless to stop it, and yet he craved it.

Matt’s lips met his again, the kiss deliberate and unyielding. Shiro’s muscles strained against the ropes as his instincts screamed at him to push Matt away, to fight, but his body remained helplessly pinned.

The hand on Shiro’s face slipped behind his head, fingers threading into the longer strands of his hair. The touch was deceptively soft—until it wasn’t.

With a sharp tug, Matt yanked Shiro’s head back, forcing his throat to arch and exposing the rapid pulse beating beneath his skin. His teeth grazed Shiro’s lower lip, the bite that followed firm enough to sting and draw a sharp wince.

Shiro inhaled sharply, a gasp torn from his throat as Matt’s other hand twisted the blade still lodged in his side. The movement sent fresh waves of agony radiating through his body, his vision momentarily dimming from the intensity of it.

“You left me to rot,” Matt growled, his voice low and venomous, vibrating with barely contained fury.

His fingers tightened in Shiro’s hair, holding him firmly in place as he tilted his head, his tone softening into something disturbingly wistful. “And yet,” Matt continued, his voice dipping into a mockery of warmth, “I’m feeling hospitable. Merciful , even.”

The words dripped with condescension, each syllable calculated to cut as deeply as the knife still embedded in Shiro’s body.

Matt punctuated his statement with a sharp twist of the blade, his wrist turning with a cruel precision that wrenched a guttural sound from Shiro. The sound was raw and involuntary, pain bleeding into the edges of his voice as his body writhed in agony.

Matt’s expression shifted, his smile widening with something akin to satisfaction as he tilted his head to study Shiro’s face. His gaze lingered on the beads of sweat dotting Shiro’s brow, the tension in his jaw, the way his dark eyes glared up at him even through the haze of pain.

“Don’t worry,” Matt murmured, his voice soft but laced with cruel amusement. “You won’t die from this.”

He released his grip on Shiro’s hair, his hand sliding down to rest lightly on his throat. The touch was maddeningly gentle, a stark contrast to the violence of his other hand gripping the knife.

“I’ll even give Dad a courtesy call,” Matt added, his tone casual, as though discussing a mundane favor. “He’ll come fetch you before you bleed out. Call it a… gesture.. of goodwill.”

Matt chuckled softly, the sound low and dark, his thumb brushing against the hollow of Shiro’s throat. The movement was almost soothing, a grotesque mimicry of affection that only deepened the violation of the moment.

Shiro’s breaths came in ragged bursts, his chest rising and falling as the pain and betrayal carved into him became indistinguishable from one another. He refused to look away, his gaze locked onto Matt’s, the fire in his eyes undimmed even as his body began to falter.

Shiro’s phone buzzed against the wood of the nightstand, the sharp, mechanical sound cutting through the oppressive silence of the room. Matt’s attention snapped to it, his head tilting as his lips curved into a slow, delighted smile.

“Well, isn’t this perfect timing,” Matt mused, taking his hand off the knife, reaching for the device. His fingers brushed against the screen, and he plucked it up with a practiced ease.

He studied the caller ID for a moment, his eyes glinting with amusement before he swiped to answer. “And oh, speak of the devil,” he said, his tone light and mocking as he glanced at Shiro, whose body strained weakly against the bonds holding him in place.

Matt tapped the screen, switching the call to speaker.

“Shiro,” Sam’s voice crackled through the speaker, tight with urgency. “Matt’s escaped. We don’t know how, but we have it on good authority he’s coming for you.”

Matt’s grin widened, a chuckle bubbling from his throat as he leaned down, his face inches from Shiro’s. His breath was warm against Shiro’s skin, the intimacy of the moment only amplifying its menace.

“Oh really, you don’t say?” Matt said into the phone, his voice dripping with mock surprise. His eyes never left Shiro’s face, watching every flicker of emotion that crossed it.

There was a long pause on the other end of the line, the tension palpable even through the small device.

Then Sam’s voice returned, low and sharp. “Matt, don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

Matt’s laughter erupted, loud and unhinged, the sound echoing in the confined space like the crack of a whip. There was no mirth in it, only a dark, chaotic joy that made Shiro’s stomach twist.

“That’s the plan, Dad,” Matt said cheerfully, his tone incongruous with the malice in his eyes. He turned his attention fully to Shiro, his voice dropping into a near-whisper, intimate and deadly. “I’m just here for a little tit-for-tat. A couple of stabs in return for leaving me alone. Fair’s fair, don’t you think?”

“Matt—” Sam’s voice cracked, the desperation in it cutting through the line like a knife.

But Matt’s patience had worn thin. He scoffed softly, straightening as he thumbed the screen. “Sorry, Dad,” he said, his voice taking on a singsong lilt. “This call is over.”

With that, he pressed the button to end the call, the abrupt silence that followed ringing louder than any scream. Matt tossed the phone carelessly onto the bed, its screen dimming as it bounced once before settling on the rumpled sheets.

Matt’s gaze fell on Shiro, his expression soft in a way that made the moment all the more disturbing. There was no rage, no fury—just a quiet, unsettling intensity that spoke of something far deeper, far darker. His eyes glinted with that same predatory light, his lips curling into a faint, almost wistful smile.

“Just you and me again, eh?” he murmured, his tone conversational, as though they were catching up after time apart.

Shiro’s breaths came in uneven gasps, the pain in his side clawing at his focus. His voice was strained, ragged, but he managed to force the words out through gritted teeth. “Stop this… nonsense…”

For the briefest of moments, Matt’s expression shifted. Something flickered in his eyes—something almost vulnerable, as if the words had struck a chord buried deep within. But the moment passed like a shadow across his face, fleeting and impossible to pin down.

He tilted his head, his smile growing as he leaned down. His lips hovered just above Shiro’s neck, the proximity suffocating as his warm breath ghosted over Shiro’s skin. “Nonsense?” Matt echoed softly, his voice dipping into something darker, tinged with quiet mockery. “Oh, Shiro. You always did have a way with understatements.”

Before Shiro could summon a reply, Matt’s lips pressed against his neck, the touch slow. At first, it was almost gentle, his lips brushing against the pulse that thudded erratically beneath Shiro’s skin. But then he sucked hard, his mouth working against the sensitive flesh until the pain mixed with the discomfort.

The vivid mark bloomed beneath Matt’s mouth, a stark bruise of deep reds and purples. Shiro winced, his body flinching against the restraint as Matt’s grip tightened in his hair, keeping him still.

Matt pulled back, his lips curving into a satisfied smile as he surveyed his work. His thumb traced lightly over the fresh hickey, the touch proprietary in a way that sent a shiver through Shiro’s body.

“There,” Matt murmured, his voice soft, almost tender. His fingers trailed from Shiro’s jaw to his collarbone.“Something to remember me by, while the wound’s under bandages.”

Shiro glared up at him, his eyes blazing despite the pain and helplessness etched into his features. “You’re insane,” he rasped, his voice shaking with anger.

Matt chuckled, the sound low and rich with amusement as he tilted his head to study Shiro. “Maybe,” he said lightly, as though the accusation were a casual observation. “Or maybe I’m finally thinking clearly for the first time in years.”

Matt leaned back slightly, letting his gaze drift over Shiro with an intensity that seemed to strip away the air between them. Shiro’s chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, his dark eyes blazing with anger and defiance despite the ropes binding his limbs. His hair clung to his damp forehead, strands disheveled from his futile struggles, and the wound at his side spread a vivid stain of crimson across his shirt.

Matt’s lips curved into a slow smile, his eyes darkening as they lingered on every mark, every detail. There was no disguising the hunger in his expression as he tilted his head, his teeth catching his bottom lip.

“Fuck you’re gorgeous,” Matt murmured, his voice low, like a lover’s confession. His words hung in the oppressive stillness of the room, weighted with something possessive. “All marked up, tied down… You’re art, Shiro. Mine.”

Shiro’s mind reeled, unbidden memories rushing to the surface like waves crashing against the shore. He remembered the one other time Matt had called him gorgeous—back when those words weren’t laced with cruelty, but instead with reverence. Back when they weren’t enemies locked in a battle of wills. Back when they were just two men tangled in each other’s gravity.

It had been in the briefing room, the same space that had seen a hundred high-stakes discussions, but that night had been different. That night, it had been theirs.

Matt’s breath had been warm against Shiro’s ear, his fingers deft and calloused as they worked Shiro free from his pants. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous, ” Matt had growled, his voice thick with desire. Shiro’s head had tipped back, his hips lifting instinctively into Matt’s touch as that voice—the voice that could undo him with a single word—wrapped around him like a vice.

Shiro’s chest had heaved with ragged breaths, the crude slick of skin against skin filling the room as Matt stroked him with a perfect rhythm. Matt’s eyes had been sharp, intense, drinking in the sight of Shiro’s trembling body with an almost predatory hunger.

The memory sharpened further, like the slash of a blade. Matt had moved with effortless confidence, climbing onto the table and straddling Shiro’s hips in one fluid motion. 

Shiro’s heart had pounded wildly as he’d felt the head of his cock brush against Matt’s entrance, his mind teetering on the edge of delirium. The way Matt had looked at him then—like Shiro was the only thing in the world that mattered—had set fire to his blood. For a moment, he’d felt free, untethered from the weight of everything but Matt.

And now…

Now, that same voice echoed in the present, twisted into something darker. Shiro forced himself back to the cold reality of the room.

He pulled against the restraints, his muscles straining even as the ropes bit into his skin. His glare was sharp, cutting, but the edge of his anger only seemed to fuel Matt’s fascination.

“You can glare at me all you want,” Matt said softly, almost lovingly. “It doesn’t change the fact that right now, you’re perfect.”

His hand trailed downward, the touch light, until it hovered just above the wound at Shiro’s side. Shiro tensed, his breaths hitching as Matt’s fingers brushed the edge of the torn flesh. The faintest pressure sent a sharp spike of pain through him, his body jerking instinctively.

Matt hummed softly, his fingers circling the wound, his movements slow, almost teasing. “Does it hurt?” he asked, his tone deceptively gentle. “I imagine it does… but pain can be such a beautiful thing, don’t you think?”

Before Shiro could respond, Matt’s middle and ring fingers dipped into the wound beside the knife, the intrusion sharp and precise. Shiro hissed through clenched teeth, his body arching against the bed, his muscles quivering from the shock of it.

“Shh,” Matt cooed, his voice a soft, mocking reassurance. “It’s alright. Just a little more… connection between us.”

He withdrew his fingers slowly, the blood staining his skin vivid and glistening in the dim light. He studied it for a moment, his head tilting slightly as though marveling at a masterpiece. Then, with deliberate slowness, he brought his hand to his lips, his tongue darting out to taste.

The moment stretched, heavy and electric, as Matt’s eyes fluttered shut, a deep sigh escaping him. The sound was intimate, indulgent, practically pornographic. When he opened his eyes again, they were darker, hooded with a lustful intensity, his pupils blown wide with something primal.

“You taste divine,” Matt murmured, his voice rich and reverent, like he was delivering a prayer.

He leaned forward then, closing the space between them, his bloodied fingers brushing against Shiro’s cheek as though tracing the curve of his jaw. The warmth of his breath ghosted over Shiro’s lips before Matt kissed him, slow and possessive, the metallic tang of blood mixing with the taste of his tongue.

The kiss was a claim, a statement, leaving no room for anything but Matt’s dominance and Shiro’s helpless resistance. Shiro’s breaths stuttered as he tried to turn his head away, but Matt’s hand caught his jaw, holding him in place.

When Matt finally pulled back, his lips were stained red, his smile widening as he took in the fury and pain etched into Shiro’s face. His thumb brushed over Shiro’s bottom lip, smearing the blood like a signature.

“Exquisite,” Matt murmured, his voice low and filled with dangerous delight. “Everything about you, Takashi… It’s intoxicating.”

Shiro glared at him, his voice hoarse but steady. “You’re sick,” he rasped, his words cutting through the charged atmosphere like a blade.

Matt tilted his head, his smile unbothered, even pleased. “Maybe,” he said softly, his tone unrepentant. “But aren’t you glad you’re the one who gets to see this side of me?”

His fingers trailed down Shiro’s chest, lingering just above the wound. The touch was deceptively tender, almost soothing, but it carried the weight of unspoken threats.

“You bring out the best in me, Takashi,” Matt continued, his voice dipping into something dangerously intimate. “And the worst.”

Shiro’s jaw tightened, his breaths coming in sharp, uneven bursts as he refused to look away. The defiance in his gaze burned brighter, even as his body betrayed him with its trembling.

He pressed one final kiss to Shiro’s lips, lingering for just a moment longer, as though savoring the finality of the kiss. When he pulled away, the air between them felt heavier, charged with something raw and unspoken. His eyes swept over Shiro’s face one last time, his expression caught between satisfaction and longing.

Slowly, Matt climbed off him, his movements deliberate and unhurried. He smoothed his blood-smeared clothes with practiced care, his fingers brushing over the wrinkles with an air of casual precision, as though wiping away evidence of the chaos he had just caused.

The room was eerily silent except for the faint shuffle of Matt’s movements and Shiro’s labored breathing. Matt’s gaze flicked to the wine glass on the dresser, its crimson contents glinting faintly in the dim light. He stepped toward it, picking up the glass with an almost reverent touch.

Pausing, he tilted his head, his eyes drifting back to Shiro, who lay bound and bleeding on the bed. Shiro’s chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, his strength fading with every second.

Matt downed the remaining wine in one smooth motion, the liquid leaving faint stains on his lips. He licked them clean, savoring the bitter taste as his eyes lingered on Shiro’s trembling form.

“Don’t die, Takashi,” Matt said softly, his voice carrying a strange, almost wistful quality. “No one’s ever been as interesting as you.”

His tone was gentle, intimate, as though he were confessing a truth he hadn’t realized until now. The words hung in the air like a promise—or a curse.

Matt’s lips curved into a faint, enigmatic smile as he set the glass down with a quiet clink . He took one last look at Shiro, his gaze trailing over the blood-soaked sheets, the ropes biting into Shiro’s skin, the fury and pain that still burned in his half-lidded eyes.

Then he turned, his footsteps soft and measured as he crossed the room. The door creaked faintly as he opened it, and for a brief moment, the faint light from the hallway framed his silhouette.

Matt paused in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder one last time. 

“You really are exquisite,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

With that, Matt slipped into the shadows, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the sound of Shiro’s ragged breaths. His vision blurred, the edges of his consciousness fraying as the pain in his side spread like fire through his body.

The room grew colder, the oppressive stillness pressing down on him as his strength waned. Shiro’s head lolled to the side, his gaze unfocused, and the last thing he saw was the faint glimmer of moonlight on the handle of the blade Matt had left behind.

The darkness crept closer, pulling him under with an unrelenting grip. And for the first time in a long while, Shiro felt truly helpless.

Chapter Text

The world returned to Shiro in jagged, disjointed fragments, each one cutting through the fog of unconsciousness like a shard of glass. The sterile tang of antiseptic filled his nostrils, mingling with the faint undertone of plastic and clean linen. His ears caught the rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor.

His eyelids fluttered open, and the fluorescent lights overhead pierced through his disorientation, making him wince. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, each inhale pulling taut against the bandages wrapped around his ribs. 

“Shiro.”

The voice cut through the haze, firm yet soft, tethering him to the present. Turning his head slowly, his gaze landed on Keith. Seated in a chair beside the bed, Keith looked as though he hadn’t moved in hours. His dark hair was disheveled, and shadows loomed heavy under his eyes. His posture was stiff, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

Shiro shifted, his arms trembling as he braced them against the mattress in an attempt to sit up. Pain surged through him like fire, sharp and unrelenting, pulling a sharp hiss from his lips. Before he could go further, Keith moved quickly, his hand pressing firmly against Shiro’s chest.

“Don’t,” Keith snapped, the word rough but not unkind. His grip didn’t waver as he pushed Shiro back down against the pillows. “You’ll rip your stitches. Just… don’t.”

The weight of Keith’s hand lingered for a moment longer before he withdrew, his jaw tightening as he sat back down. Shiro let his head rest against the pillow, grimacing as his own hand instinctively moved toward his bandaged side.

“What… what happened?” Shiro’s voice rasped, the words scraping against his dry throat like sandpaper. 

A quiet shuffle broke the tense silence, drawing his attention to the far side of the room. Pidge sat perched on the windowsill, their knees pulled to their chest, arms wrapped tightly around themselves, bracing against some unseen cold. Their eyes were red-rimmed, the faint sheen of tears evident even though their expression was a carefully constructed mask of detachment. Near the door stood Sam, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion. 

It was Pidge who finally broke the silence, their voice clipped, trembling at the edges. “Matt,” they said, the name slicing through the air like a blade. Their knuckles tightened around their knees. “He escaped. And then… he came after you.”

The words struck Shiro harder than the pain in his side. His breaths hitched, memories clawing at the edges of his mind—shadows in the dark, the gleam of a blade, Matt’s twisted smile. He swallowed hard, forcing the fragments away, refusing to let them rise fully to the surface. Not now.

“When we got there…” Pidge continued, their voice faltering as they stared at the floor. They cleared their throat sharply, fighting for control. “You were bleeding out. The knife… it was still in you.”

The phantom sensation of the blade twisted in Shiro’s side, he could almost feel Matt’s fingers ghosting over his skin before dipping into the wound—exploring the raw, ragged edges with an intimacy that turned his stomach. His breath hitched, the phantom sensation of pain and violation too vivid, too fresh. He clenched his jaw, his fingers curling into the blanket as he forced his expression to remain neutral.

“Matt was gone,” Keith added, his voice strained. His hands gripped the edge of the chair, the knuckles white with tension. “Vanished. No sound, no trail. Just you, Shiro—lying there, unconscious and…” Keith stopped himself, his jaw tightening as he looked away.

Sam stepped forward, his expression heavy with worry and unspoken questions. His eyes searched Shiro’s face, looking for answers, for something to make sense of the nightmare they were living. “Do you remember anything?” Sam asked, his voice low but firm. “Anything at all?”

Shiro froze. The memories surged forward. Matt’s voice, low and mocking. The chill of his hands. The taste of blood, metallic and bitter. The kiss—a searing thing that left him hollow. Shame coiled in his chest, sharp and suffocating. He couldn’t tell them. He wouldn’t.

“I…” Shiro hesitated, his voice catching. He forced himself to meet Sam’s gaze, steeling his nerves as the lie formed. “I don’t remember. Everything’s… blurry.”

The words tasted bitter on his tongue, but he pushed the guilt aside, locking it away. His face remained calm, steady, as he delivered the lie with as much conviction as he could muster.

Pidge’s head snapped up, their glare sharp and accusing. “Nothing?” they said, incredulous, their voice rising. “You don’t remember anything ?”

Shiro shook his head slightly, keeping his expression neutral. “No,” he said firmly. “Just bits and pieces. Nothing useful.”

Pidge’s jaw clenched, their fingers digging into their arms as they looked away. “Convenient,” they muttered, their voice laced with frustration and something deeper, something bordering on disbelief.

Keith shot Pidge a warning look, his voice quieter when he spoke. “You don’t have to push yourself,” he said, his tone softer now. “You’ve been through a lot. Just focus on healing.”

Sam lingered near the foot of the bed, his gaze lingering on Shiro. Finally, he nodded, though the concern in his eyes didn’t waver. “Alright,” he said, his voice heavy. “But when you’re ready, Shiro… anything you can remember might help.”

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken emotions. Shiro closed his eyes, his body sinking into the bed as exhaustion pulled at him. The memories pressed against the edges of his mind, vivid and relentless, but he refused to let them take hold.

For now, they would stay buried, locked away where they couldn’t hurt anyone but him.

--

The living room felt suffocating despite its warmth, the cozy glow of the overhead light unable to penetrate the heavy tension that hung between Sam and Pidge. The faint hum of the heater filled the silence, but it was little comfort against the storm brewing inside them. Pidge sat curled on the couch and a blanket draped loosely over their shoulders. Sam stood by the window, his figure silhouetted against the cold darkness outside. 

For several minutes, neither of them spoke. Seeing Shiro lying pale and battered in that bed, it was horrible. But it wasn’t the only thing gnawing at Pidge. The memories of Matt’s smirking face, his words, the blood still caked under his fingernails—it haunted them. It didn’t fit. None of it fit. And yet, it was real.

Finally, unable to hold it back any longer, Pidge’s voice cut through the quiet. “Dad,” they said softly, their words trembling with uncertainty. “Was there… was there anything that could’ve made Matt like this?”

Sam flinched. The reaction was subtle, but Pidge caught it, their sharp gaze zeroing in on the way his shoulders tensed, his head bowing slightly as though the question had struck a nerve. He didn’t answer right away. He didn’t even look at them, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the window.

“Dad?” Pidge pressed, their voice gaining strength. They lowered their feet to the floor, their hands gripping the edge of the blanket tightly. “Did something happen?”

Sam exhaled slowly, the sound heavy. His head dipped lower, and his fingers curled against the windowsill. When he finally spoke, his voice was tight, barely above a whisper. “There is something I didn’t tell you.”

The words hit Pidge like a punch to the chest. “Didn’t tell me?” they echoed, their tone sharp and incredulous. “What do you mean you didn’t tell me?”

Sam turned slowly to face them, his face lined with exhaustion and something else—something deeper and harder to name. Guilt, maybe. Or regret. His hands dropped to his sides, clenching into fists.

“You were so young,” he said finally, his voice cracking slightly. “I didn’t want you to grow up with… with this hanging over you.”

“With what?” Pidge demanded, their eyes narrowing. They stood abruptly, the blanket slipping from their shoulders as they took a step toward him. “What didn’t you tell me?”

Sam’s jaw tightened, his gaze flicking away from them to focus on the floor. For a moment, he looked like he might retreat, might leave the room entirely rather than answer. But then he sighed again, deeper this time, and sank into the armchair across from the couch.

“It has to do with your mother,” he said, his tone laced with hesitation.

Pidge froze, their heart skipping a beat at the mention of their mother. The word felt foreign, distant, like a memory blurred at the edges. “Mom?” they whispered, their voice barely audible.

Sam nodded, his expression grim. “You were four years old,” he began slowly, “when it happened. You probably don’t remember much about her. You were just a kid.”

“What happened?” Pidge demanded, their voice trembling as they clenched their hands into fists. “What happened to Mom?”

Sam hesitated, his shoulders slumping as though the weight of the memory was too much to bear. “Your mom and Matt were taken,” he said finally, his words slow and deliberate. “It was… it was a ransom.”

The room seemed to tilt slightly, the air sucked out of it as Pidge struggled to process what they were hearing. “Ransom?” they repeated, their voice shaking. “What do you mean?”

Sam’s face darkened, his eyes clouding with pain. “The kidnappers wanted leverage—someone they thought they could use to force them into doing what they wanted.”

Pidge’s stomach churned. “What did they want?”

“They wanted us to release someone from custody,” Sam said bitterly. “Charles Smith. A career criminal, one of the worst we’d taken off the streets. They thought using my family as bargaining chips would give them what they wanted.”

Pidge sank back onto the couch, their legs feeling weak. “And you didn’t tell me this?” they asked, their voice rising with a mixture of anger and disbelief. “Why wouldn’t you tell me something like this?”

“You were four, Pidge,” Sam said, his voice tight with frustration. “What was I supposed to do? Sit you down and explain that your mom and brother were kidnapped and—” He stopped himself, his voice breaking as he looked away.

“Explain what?” Pidge pressed, their eyes wide and pleading. “What happened to them?”

Sam rubbed a hand over his face, his fingers trembling slightly as he forced himself to continue. “It was three days before we got the first call,” he said quietly. “They told us if we wanted to see Colleen and Matt alive, we had to release Smith. No questions. No delays.”

Pidge leaned forward, their hands gripping their knees as they hung on every word. “What did you do?”

“We waited,” Sam said bitterly, the word laced with self-loathing. “We needed proof of life. We couldn’t just let a man like Smith walk free without knowing for sure.”

“And then?” Pidge’s voice cracked.

Sam’s jaw tightened, his eyes dropping to the floor. “We got an anonymous tip,” he said softly. “It led us to a warehouse on the outskirts of town. When we got there…”

He swallowed hard, his voice breaking as he continued. “The kidnappers were dead. So was Colleen.”

Pidge recoiled as though they’d been struck, their breath catching in their throat. “Mom…” they whispered, tears spilling over their lashes. 

“She was gone,” Sam said, his voice hollow. “When we found her… she’d been brutalized. Tortured. Chunks of her flesh were missing. It was the worst thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Pidge shook their head, tears streaming down their face as they tried to make sense of it. “And Matt? What about Matt?”

Sam’s face softened, though the pain in his eyes remained. “We found Matt in the corner of the room,” he said quietly. “He was covered in blood. Shaking. Crying. But… calm. Too calm.”

Pidge stared at him, their lips trembling as fresh tears spilled down their cheeks. “What… what did he say?” they whispered.

Sam shook his head. “He didn’t say anything,” he admitted. “He clung to me like his life depended on it, but he wouldn’t talk about what happened. Not then. Not ever. I tried to get him help, but he just… shut down.”

The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the sound of Pidge’s quiet sobs. Sam reached out, his hand resting gently on their shoulder. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to carry this,” he said softly. “I thought… I thought I was protecting you.”

Pidge shook their head, their voice breaking as they spoke. “You should have told me,” they said, their hands curling into fists at their sides. “If I’d known, we could’ve watched him together—looked for signs, done something to stop this.”

Sam exhaled shakily, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his guilt. “I’ve gone over every interaction I ever had with Matt,” he said, his tone raw. “Every conversation, every glance, every moment we shared. He never showed signs of being… this. Not once.”

Pidge’s breath hitched, and they turned their gaze away, tears welling in their eyes. “Maybe I would’ve seen something you missed,” they whispered, their voice heavy.

Sam’s expression crumpled, and he pulled Pidge into a tight embrace. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice heavy with regret. “I’m so sorry.”

Pidge clung to him like a lifeline, their tears soaking into his shirt as they cried for the mother they’d barely known, the brother they no longer recognized, and the family that had been shattered long before they could understand what was lost.

Chapter Text

Matt sat cross-legged on the cracked linoleum floor of the dingy apartment, his back pressed against the peeling wall. The space was suffocating in its silence, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional groan of the old building settling around him. Shadows clung to the corners of the room, the single bulb above casting an anemic light that seemed to magnify the bleakness rather than dispel it.

His legs folded beneath him, and the oversized hoodie draped over his form like a shroud, its fabric soft but weighty. It was Shiro’s hoodie—stolen before the arrest, before the masks were stripped away and everything fell apart. Even now, it smelled faintly of him, clean and warm, a ghost of familiarity in the midst of the chaos that had become his life. Matt’s fingers clenched the hem absently, seeking comfort in its worn edges, though the hollowness inside him refused to be filled.

A bowl of ramen sat in his lap, the cheap kind with broth that carried the tang of artificial seasoning. Steam curled upward lazily, its warmth a weak contrast to the icy draft that seeped through the cracked window. Matt twirled the noodles around his chopsticks, his movements slow and mechanical. He stared ahead with unfocused eyes, his mind far from the cramped apartment.

The smell of iron hung in the air mingling with the faint tang of the broth. Against the wall to his left, a body slumped lifelessly, its head lolling unnaturally to one side. The chest cavity was hollowed out, the skin around it ragged and torn. Blood stained the cracked linoleum beneath it, pooling in dark, glistening streaks that shimmered faintly in the dim light.

Pieces of the body had, ‘found,’ their way into his ramen. Small chunks of flesh bobbed in the broth, their texture foreign against the soft noodles. The sight of it didn’t faze him—he’d seen too much, done too much for it to spark any real reaction—but as he lifted a chunk of meat to his lips, he hesitated.

The taste was already there, heavy on his tongue, even though he hadn’t taken a bite. The smell, the texture, the weight of it in his chopsticks—it pulled at something deep within him, something buried but never forgotten. His hand trembled, the chopsticks hovering in midair, as the past surged forward, dragging him under with the force of a tide he couldn’t resist.

--

The barn reeked of rot, damp wood, and fear, a cocktail of misery that seeped into Matt’s every breath. The winter cold cut through the ramshackle structure, sneaking through every crack and crevice to gnaw at his skin. He huddled in the corner, wrapped in a blanket so thin it might as well have been paper. His fingers and toes felt like blocks of ice, numb from days of exposure.

His mother sat beside him, her arms wound tightly around his trembling frame. She murmured softly, her voice low but firm, fighting to keep the terror from seeping into her words. “Your dad’s coming for us, Matt,” she whispered, pressing her lips against his hair. “I promise you. He’ll find us. We just have to hang on.”

Matt didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He clung to her coat, the coarse fabric scratching against his frozen fingers. His stomach growled, how long had it been since either of them had eaten? The hunger had hollowed him out, leaving a gnawing ache that no amount of whispered reassurances could soothe.

Across the barn, two men paced near the entrance, their footsteps uneven, their voices low and sharp. One of them, a wiry man with a scar running from his temple to his jaw, (Matt had dubbed him Scar) spat on the ground as he passed. His movements were restless, his gaze darting around the room like a predator.

“This isn’t working,” Scar muttered, his tone laced with frustration. “The FBI’s not budging. All this waiting around—what’s the point? They don’t care about some woman and a kid. They want Smith locked away, end of story.”

His companion, broader and gruffer, leaned against a rotting beam, lighting a cigarette with steady hands. “They’ll care,” he replied, exhaling a plume of smoke. “They just need the right motivation.”

Scar snorted, his boots crunching against the frozen dirt as he turned to face the smoker. “Motivation, huh? And what exactly is that gonna look like?”

“Don’t matter,” the other man spat, his tone cold. “We make them listen. We make them care.”

Matt pressed closer to his mother, his heart hammering in his chest. He didn’t understand all of their words, but their venom was unmistakable. The way they glanced in his direction—quick, calculated, assessing—made his stomach churn.

--

The days crawled by, each one colder and more unbearable than the last. The kidnappers’ patience frayed with every passing hour, their tempers erupting in sharp words and clenched fists. Supplies dwindled, leaving them all trapped in a vicious cycle of hunger and desperation.

One night, as the wind howled through the cracks in the barn, Scar tossed his cigarette onto the ground and stomped it out with unnecessary force. “This isn’t sustainable,” he muttered, his voice low but carrying an edge that made Matt’s chest tighten.

The broader man nodded, his jaw tightening as his gaze flicked toward Matt and Colleen. He chewed on the end of a toothpick, his brow furrowed as though considering something unpleasant. “She’s more trouble than she’s worth,” he muttered, nodding toward Colleen. “The kid’s all we need. The woman’s dead weight.”

Matt felt his mother stiffen beside him, her arms wrapping around him like a shield. “No,” she inhaled sharply, her voice shaking but unyielding. “Please. Don’t do this.”

The man shrugged, his eyes cold and detached. “It’s not personal. It’s survival.”

“Stop,” she pleaded, her tone cracking as her hands gripped Matt tighter. “I’ll do anything. Just don’t—”

The gunshot cut through the barn, deafening in its suddenness. Matt flinched, his ears ringing as his mother’s body slumped against him. Her warmth, her strength—all of it vanished in an instant.

Blood spread across the dirt floor.

And Matt screamed. 

He reached for her, his small hands trembling as they pressed against the wound in her chest. “Mom, don’t leave me,” he sobbed, his tears mixing with the blood that now coated his fingers.

Scar grabbed him by the back of his coat, hauling him to his feet with a grunt. “She’s gone, kid,” he grunted, dragging Matt away from his mother’s body. “Nothing you can do about it now.”

Matt fought, kicking and screaming, his voice hoarse with desperation. “No! Let me go! Mom!”

The man shoved him roughly into the corner, his face twisted in annoyance. “Shut up and stay put,” he growled. “Unless you wanna end up like her.”

--

The next hours were a blur of horror.

The men dragged Colleen’s body to the center of the barn, their knives gleaming in the dim light as they began to cut. The sound of flesh tearing and bone cracking filled the space.

Matt turned his face into his knees, his small frame shaking violently as he sobbed. But he couldn’t block it out. The smell of blood was overwhelming, seeping into his nose and mouth until it was all he could taste.

When Scar approached him with a plate, the sight of the meat made his stomach churn violently.

“Eat,” Scar ordered, shoving the plate closer. “You need to keep your strength up.”

Matt shook his head, his tears falling onto the dirt floor. 

The man’s expression darkened. He grabbed Matt’s chin, forcing his face up to meet his gaze. “You eat, or you starve,” he said coldly. “Your choice.”

Matt clenched his teeth, shaking his head as fresh tears streamed down his face. The man released him with a scoff, only to deliver a sharp slap across his face. “Fine,” he snapped. “Then you can sit there and rot.”

The hunger gnawed at Matt, relentless and unmerciful. Hours passed, then days, the pain in his stomach growing unbearable. His vision blurred, his head pounding as his body begged for sustenance.

When he finally picked it up, his hands trembled so badly he could barely hold it. The first bite was torture, the taste metallic and nauseating. He gagged, his body convulsing as he spat it back out.

Scar’s fist connected with his temple, sending him sprawling to the ground. “You’ll eat it,” he snarled, “or you’ll wish you had.”

Matt forced the next bite down, tears streaming down his face as the taste of his mother’s flesh filled his mouth. He vomited it up almost immediately, but they made him try again. And again.

Until he stopped resisting.

--

The barn door groaned open, its rusty hinges shrieking against the cold wind that howled through the broken slats. Snow swirled inside, settling in fine layers over the frozen dirt floor, the icy draft cutting through the stale stench of decay and fear. Matt sat huddled in a corner, his knees drawn to his chest. He stared blankly ahead, his face pale and gaunt, lips cracked and tinged blue.

He didn’t move when the door creaked, nor did he flinch at the shadow that entered. His mind was too far gone, his body too weak to react.

The figure who stepped inside was tall, his frame wrapped in a heavy, dark coat that seemed to absorb the faint light from the flickering lanterns. He moved with deliberate steps, his boots crunching against the frost-covered ground. As he crossed the threshold, he paused, his sharp eyes taking in the scene before him.

There was Colleen—or what was left of her. Her body lay in the center of the barn, reduced to something unrecognizable, blood staining the ground. The two men huddled near a dying fire, their faces hollow and drawn from hunger, their clothes filthy and worn.

And there was Matt.

The man’s gaze lingered on him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, his attention shifted to the kidnappers.

Scarface noticed him first. “Who the hell are you?” he snapped.

The man in the coat didn’t answer. Instead, he took another step inside, the heavy barn door creaking shut behind him. His hands stayed at his sides, loose and unthreatening, though his presence filled the space with an oppressive weight.

The second kidnapper rose to his feet, one hand moving toward the rusted axe that lay beside him. “You lost, buddy?” he growled, his tone a warning.

The man in the coat tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes catching the dim light. He spoke at last, his voice low and calm, almost amused. “Not at all.”

The wiry man exchanged a glance with his companion, his hand moving toward the pistol tucked into his waistband. “You’ve got about ten seconds to turn around and get out of here,” he sneered. “Or—”

The movement was too fast to follow.

The man in the coat surged forward, his blade gleaming in the dim light. The wiry man didn’t even have time to draw his gun before the knife found its mark, slashing across his throat in a single, fluid motion. Blood sprayed in a vivid arc, hot and steaming in the frigid air.

The wiry man crumpled to the ground, his hands clutching his neck as he gurgled his last breath.

The broad-shouldered man roared, swinging the axe with all his strength. The stranger stepped aside with unnerving grace, the blade embedding itself in a wooden post. Before the kidnapper could recover, the stranger plunged his knife into the man’s chest, twisting it.

A strangled gasp escaped the man’s lips as he staggered backward, collapsing in a heap beside the fire.

The barn fell silent except for the soft patter of blood dripping onto the frozen earth.

Matt sat frozen in the corner, his wide eyes fixed on the two lifeless bodies sprawled in the dirt. His small frame quaked with each shallow breath, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees. Tears didn’t come. Neither did screams. He was past those now, his mind numb to the horror around him.

The stranger cleaned his blade with precision, wiping it on the broad-shouldered man’s coat. The gesture was unhurried before he sheathed the weapon and turned toward Matt.

He moved slowly, crouching down to Matt’s level. The sharp features of his face were thrown into relief by the flickering firelight, the shadows dancing in his piercing dark eyes.

“You hurt?” the man asked, his voice low and even.

Matt shook his head reflexively, though his body betrayed him, trembling uncontrollably.

The man’s gaze lingered on him, assessing. His attention flicked briefly to the remains of Colleen. Unlike Matt’s kidnappers, who had gawked at her body with hunger or revulsion, this man’s expression betrayed no emotion—only a detached calm, as though he were cataloging details for future reference.

“You’re freezing,” he said finally, shrugging out of his coat. It was too large and heavy for Matt, the dark material frayed at the edges, but the stranger draped it over his thin shoulders like it was meant for him. The weight of it was startling, warm and overwhelming, the thick fabric smelling faintly of leather and something sharp—iron, maybe.

“Keep it on,” the man added, his voice firmer. “It’ll help.”

Matt’s fingers fumbled with the coat, gripping its edges tightly as he pulled it closer. It was the first warmth he’d felt in days, and he clung to it, as though letting go might shatter the fragile sense of relief the man’s presence offered.

The stranger didn’t speak again. He didn’t ask for Matt’s name or offer his own. Instead, he lowered himself to the ground, sitting with his back against the barn wall, his legs stretched out before him.

Matt hesitated, his gaze flickering between the man’s face and the bloodied ground. The stranger wasn’t like the kidnappers—his movements were calm, and though his eyes were sharp, they lacked malice. He had spoken softly, given Matt warmth when no one else had.

Matt moved toward him, the coat slipping slightly from his shoulders as he crawled closer. The stranger didn’t stop him, his gaze steady but unreadable.

Matt hesitated again, then curled up against the man’s side, his small frame tucking into the crook of his arm. He felt awkward and out of place, but the man didn’t push him away. Instead, he shifted slightly, allowing Matt to settle more comfortably.

The man’s arm draped loosely around him, his hand resting lightly on Matt’s back. The gesture was neither protective nor tender, but it was warm.

Matt’s trembling began to ease. The coat enveloped him like a shield, and the stranger’s presence—calm, quiet, unshakable—became an anchor in the storm of his shattered world.

For the first time in days, the gnawing terror subsided. It wasn’t safety, not exactly, but it was the closest Matt had come to it.

They stayed like that, curled against the barn wall in the dying firelight, the bodies cooling a few feet away. The silence between them stretched, unbroken and strangely soothing.

When the FBI arrived hours later, the barn was still and quiet. The bodies lay where they had fallen, the blood congealing in dark pools beneath them.

Matt was found huddled in the corner, wrapped in the stranger’s coat. His eyes were wide and glassy, his face streaked with dirt and dried tears.

Of the man who had saved him, there was no trace. The only proof he’d existed at all was the coat on Matt’s shoulders and the faint scent of leather and iron lingering in the air.

--

The ramen bowl slipped from Matt’s trembling hands, hitting the floor with a muted clatter. Broth seeped out in widening streaks, soaking into the ground, but Matt didn’t even glance at the mess. His chest heaved, each breath scraping against the inside of his ribs as the memories surged, dragging him under their crushing weight.

His hands rose shakily to his face, fingers pressing hard against his temples as if he could physically force the images out. Tears fell freely, streaking his cheeks, hot and bitter, until they dripped onto his hoodie. Each ragged gasp burned his throat, and the thought of drawing another breath felt unbearable—he didn’t deserve the air filling his lungs.

“Mom…” he whispered, the word escaping in a voice fractured by grief. It cracked as it left his lips, trembling and desperate. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry…”

The apology hung in the room, unanswered, suffocating in its futility. He curled into himself, knees pressed to his chest as he tried to make himself small enough to disappear. The hoodie clung to him. But its warmth was a cruel lie, a feeble shield against the icy void that had consumed him for years.

This cold wasn’t from the draft slipping through the cracked window or the winter air outside. It was far deeper, buried within him since that time in the barn. It was the cold of choices he hadn’t made but had lived with every day since. Of surviving when someone else hadn’t. Of being the one who had walked away.

His fingers twisted in the hoodie’s fabric, gripping it so tightly his knuckles blanched. The worn fabric was comfort and accusation all at once. It was Shiro’s, and Shiro had trusted him. Look where that had led.

His mother’s voice came to him, faint and distant, from a time when he had still believed in rescue and redemption. “Your dad will come for us, Matt. We just have to hang on.” He could almost feel her hand on his hair, the way she had held him close even as her own body trembled.

But she hadn’t been able to hang on. And he hadn’t been able to save her.

His breath hitched as fresh tears spilled down his cheeks. The walls of the room seemed to fold in on him, narrowing with every passing second. The shadows pressed closer, their weight heavy, suffocating, until the single bulb above him flickered weakly in protest.

The ghost of her touch vanished. He could still taste the iron, feel the scrape of his teeth against the flesh he’d swallowed to stay alive.

Alive.

The word was hollow. Empty. Survival had come at a cost he could never repay, and the debt gnawed at him every day. It was a weight he carried with every step, a voice that whispered in his ear every night, reminding him of the life stolen so that his could continue.

Matt rocked slightly, his trembling hands clutching at the hoodie. Nothing was enough. Not vengeance, not the chaos he created, not the stolen moments of comfort he craved like a starving man.

And now even breathing felt like a betrayal.

“Mom…” he choked out again, barely audible, his voice dissolving into a low, broken sob. He pressed his face against his knees, the apology spilling from him in desperate, anguished whispers. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. I should’ve—”

He stopped himself, his voice catching as if the words themselves were too heavy to bear. What should he have done? Died instead? Maybe that would have been better. Maybe the cold would have left him then, satisfied that it had claimed everything.

The idea that this cold, this guilt, this unbearable weight might finally be too much whispered through him, gentle but insistent. He closed his eyes tightly against the thought, against the relief it promised, but it was there, coiled like a shadow in the pit of his mind.

And as Matt sat on the cold floor, his tears soaking into the fabric of a hoodie that didn’t belong to him, he realized that part of him wanted the cold to win.

Chapter Text

Shiro’s fingers trembled as he traced the edge of the scar on his side, the faint ridge of skin a reminder of Matt’s twisted affection. The pain had dulled over time, reduced to a faint ache when he moved too quickly, but the memory of that night refused to fade. No amount of time or distance could dull the sensation of Matt’s lips on his, the searing kiss contrasted with the cold steel of the knife buried in his flesh.

He hated himself for it.

For the way his body had responded despite the pain. For the flicker of relief he’d felt seeing Matt again, even when his life had been on the line. For the fact that, deep down, he had missed Matt. As much as he tried to bury it under layers of guilt and revulsion, the truth clung to him: a part of him still loved Matt.

The safe house was quiet, the faint hum of the heater the only sound in the room. Shiro sat at the small table, a cold cup of coffee in front of him, untouched. He hadn’t slept much since being cleared for duty, his nights plagued by restless dreams of Matt—of the kisses, the whispers, the blood. He’d wake with his heart pounding, his hand instinctively reaching for his side as though expecting to find the blade still there.

He’d thought that time and distance would weaken Matt’s hold on him. That with Matt locked away, the memories would lose their power. But instead, they’d only grown sharper, more vivid, as if Matt’s absence had left a void Shiro didn’t know how to fill.

--

The latest crime scene had been one of Matt’s most inventive creations yet. A woman in her late twenties, hung from a chandelier in a crumbling estate. Her body was adorned with jasmine and gold leaf, her skin pale and glistening under the faint light that filtered through shattered windows. Matt’s signature was unmistakable—the meticulous arrangement, the symbolism, the haunting beauty of it all.

Shiro had spent hours at the scene, reconstructing Matt’s process. He could feel Matt’s hands in every detail, his presence woven into the very fabric of the tableau. And as much as it sickened him, it also felt… intimate.

It made Shiro’s skin crawl.

And yet, as he’d stared at the body, his thoughts had drifted back to that night in his house. To Matt straddling him, the knife twisting in his side, their breaths mingling in the darkness. He’d hated the pain, the helplessness—but the kiss? He couldn’t lie to himself. He hadn’t hated that.

His face burned with shame at the memory, the coffee cup rattling slightly in his hands as his grip tightened. How could he still feel this way? After everything Matt had done, how could he still miss him? How could he still want him?

--

Keith’s voice cut through the fog of Shiro’s thoughts, startling him. “You’re doing it again.”

Shiro blinked, his gaze snapping up to find Keith leaning in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. His expression was a mix of exasperation and concern, his brow furrowed as he watched Shiro.

“Doing what?” Shiro asked, his voice harsher than he intended. He immediately regretted it, softening his tone. “Sorry. What do you mean?”

Keith stepped into the room, pulling out the chair across from Shiro and sitting down. “You’re sitting here, brooding. You think I can’t tell? You’ve been stuck in your own head since you got back in the field.”

Shiro sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’m fine,” he muttered, though the words felt hollow even as he said them.

Keith’s gaze didn’t waver. “No, you’re not.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “You can talk to me, you know. Whatever’s going on, I’m not going to judge you.”

Shiro’s chest tightened. He wanted to tell Keith everything—to unload the guilt, the shame, the twisted feelings he couldn’t untangle. But how could he? How could he admit that a part of him still loved Matt? That he’d missed Matt’s presence, even when it had been tied to so much pain? That he’d kissed back, even as the knife twisted deeper?

“I can’t,” Shiro whispered.

Keith’s expression softened, the edges of his usual sharpness giving way to something gentler. “Can’t or won’t?”

Shiro didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He stared down at the table, his hands gripping the edge as though it might anchor him. The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.

Finally, Keith sighed and leaned back in his chair. “You know, whatever you’re feeling—whatever’s going on in your head—it doesn’t make you a bad person, Shiro.”

Shiro’s head shot up, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You don’t know what I’m feeling,” he snapped, his voice tight.

Keith shrugged. “Maybe not. But I know you. And I know that beating yourself up over it isn’t going to help.”

Shiro wanted to argue, to push Keith away, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he looked away, his thoughts drifting to the scar on his side. It seemed to mock him, a manifestation of everything he couldn’t let go of.

--

The lead that brought them to Matt was flimsy at best—an offhand mention from a street informant about someone matching his description purchasing an unusual amount of surgical-grade thread at a shady supply shop downtown. Shiro hadn’t expected much to come of it; the trail had gone cold weeks ago, and every breadcrumb so far had led to another dead end.

But when Pidge dug deeper, cross-referencing recent purchases with reported break-ins at specialty medical suppliers, a pattern emerged. A supply depot on the outskirts of the city had reported an inventory theft—sterilized tools, surgical thread, and anesthetics—just two days prior. 

It wasn’t much, but it was something. Shiro had insisted they check it out.

--

The location wasn’t the kind of place anyone would look twice at. A decrepit warehouse nestled between abandoned factories, its walls tagged with faded graffiti and its windows shattered long ago. It looked forgotten, but that made it the perfect place to hide.

Pidge’s small team had tracked a faint heat signature on the upper floors using a drone, confirming someone was inside. Still, it wasn’t guaranteed to be Matt—it could just as easily be squatters or a drug operation. But the possibility was enough to set Shiro’s nerves on edge.

He adjusted the earpiece in his ear, his voice low and calm as he spoke. “Pidge, Allura, let’s keep this quiet. We don’t know what we’re walking into.”

“Copy that,” Pidge replied, their tone clipped and focused. “I’ve got the side entrance covered.”

“I’ll take the main stairwell,” Allura affirmed, her voice steady.

Shiro nodded, his grip tightening on his gun. “I’ll clear the east wing.”

Shiro’s boots barely made a sound against the cracked concrete floor as he stepped into the warehouse, his flashlight cutting through the gloom. The space was cavernous, shadows stretching like claws across the walls, but he pushed the unease aside. Focus. Breathe. Move.

Shiro’s progress through the east wing was practical. Room by room, he checked for signs of life—an overturned chair, a fresh boot print in the dust, the faint smell of antiseptic lingering in the air. It wasn’t until he reached the second floor that he saw it: a neatly stacked pile of supplies in the corner of a storage room. Surgical thread, empty anesthetic vials, clean gauze—all items that screamed preparation.

His heart pounded in his chest, the realization settling over him like a lead weight. Matt was here.

Shiro pressed a finger to his earpiece. “I’ve got evidence of prep supplies. He’s close.”

“Stay sharp,” Pidge replied, their voice taut. “Allura and I are sweeping the west wing. Don’t engage unless you have to.”

“Understood,” Shiro confirmed, though he knew if he saw Matt, there wouldn’t be any waiting.

The faint creak of floorboards above him drew Shiro’s attention. His gaze snapped upward, his body tensing as he honed in on the sound. Slowly, he moved toward the stairwell, his gun raised and his steps silent.

He ascended the stairs cautiously, each creak beneath his weight threatening to give him away. As he reached the landing, he saw a faint glow spilling from an open door at the end of the hall. His breath caught.

That’s when he heard the voice.

“You’re getting predictable, Takashi,” Matt purred, his voice carrying through the still air like a taunt. “I almost didn’t bother setting this up, but I had a feeling you’d come sniffing around eventually.”

Shiro froze for half a heartbeat, his pulse spiking. He moved forward, his steps quick, until he reached the doorway. Inside, the room was dimly lit by a single work lamp, casting long shadows over the table covered in surgical instruments and scattered notes.

And there he was.

Matt stood near the far wall, his posture relaxed, a faint smirk playing on his lips. He looked eerily calm, as though he’d been expecting Shiro all along.

“You’re a hard man to track down,” Shiro muttered, his voice low and steady as he stepped inside, his gun trained on Matt.

Matt’s smirk widened, his hands tucked casually into his pockets. “That’s because I don’t like being found.” He tilted his head, his gaze sweeping over Shiro like he was sizing him up. “But I’ll admit, it’s good to see you again. I’ve missed our little chats.”

Shiro’s jaw tightened, his grip on the gun unwavering. “It’s over, Matt. You’re not walking out of here.”

Matt raised an eyebrow, his expression amused. “Oh, Shiro,” he murmured, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “You always think you’re in control, don’t you?”

Before Shiro could respond, Matt moved. Fast. Too fast.

A sharp motion to the side, a flash of metal glinting in the dim light, and suddenly Shiro was ducking as a thrown scalpel narrowly missed his head. By the time he recovered, Matt had slipped past him, darting toward the door.

“Pidge, Allura, he’s heading west!” Shiro barked into his earpiece as he gave chase, his boots pounding against the floor.

Matt’s laughter echoed through the hall, sharp and taunting, as he disappeared into the shadows ahead.

Shiro sprinted after Matt, his heart pounding as he navigated the dim, crumbling hallways of the warehouse. The adrenaline coursing through him sharpened his focus, but Matt's laughter—light and almost playful—set his teeth on edge. He could barely make out Matt’s silhouette darting around corners, the flickering light of his flashlight casting fleeting shadows that only added to the disorientation.

“Pidge! Allura! He’s heading your way—cut him off!” Shiro barked into his earpiece, his voice tight with urgency.

“Got it,” Pidge replied, their tone clipped. “I’m near the stairwell; he won’t get past me.”

“Allura?” Shiro called, but the comm crackled with static.

Matt’s movements were deliberate, but there was no sign of panic in him. Shiro could tell he wasn’t running—he was leading. The thought made his gut churn.

Ahead, the corridor forked. Matt took the left path, and Shiro followed without hesitation. His instincts screamed that he was being lured into something, but there was no time to consider the alternatives. Matt was within reach, and Shiro couldn’t let him slip away again.

Chapter Text

As Shiro rounded the next corner, he stumbled upon Pidge, crumpled against the wall near the stairwell. Their breathing was shallow but steady.

“Pidge!” Shiro knelt, his hand pressing against their shoulder. “What happened?”

“Tricked me,” Pidge muttered, wincing as they tried to sit up. “I thought he doubled back… but it was a decoy move.”

Shiro’s jaw tightened. “Can you move?”

“Yeah,” Pidge grunted, though their movements were sluggish. “Go. Don’t let him get away.”

Reluctantly, Shiro rose, sparing Pidge a final glance before taking off down the hall.

The chase brought Shiro to the second floor, where the air was colder, tinged with the scent of rust and decay. He slowed his steps as he approached a large, open room. The shattered remnants of industrial equipment were scattered throughout, casting jagged shadows under the faint moonlight streaming through broken windows.

Then, he saw her—Allura. She stood near the far side of the room, her stance tense as she faced Matt, who stood between her and the exit.

“Allura, don’t let him bait you!” Shiro called, raising his gun as he stepped closer.

Matt’s smile was sharp as a blade. “Ah, the cavalry. Right on cue.”

“Stay where you are, Matt,” Allura warned, her voice steady but firm.

Matt tilted his head, his expression almost fond. “And here I thought you’d be smarter than this.”

In one fluid motion, Matt reached behind him and pulled a small object from his belt. He tossed it to the floor at Allura’s feet—a flashbang. The explosion of light and sound was deafening, and Allura cried out, her balance faltering as she stumbled backward.

“No!” Shiro shouted, rushing forward.

But Matt was already moving. With a powerful kick, he forced open the window behind Allura. She stumbled, blinded and disoriented, and Matt shoved her toward it.

Shiro watched in horror as Allura tumbled out the window, her form disappearing into the night.

“Allura!” he roared, skidding to a halt near the window.

Matt didn’t stop. As Shiro turned, Matt darted out of the room, his footfalls echoing down the corridor.

Shiro hesitated only long enough to hear Allura’s faint, pained groan from below. She was alive—she had to be. Turning back to the chase, he bolted after Matt.

--

The storage room was a crucible of heat and tension, the single swaying lightbulb casting fractured shadows that rippled along the walls. Shiro burst through the door, his gun raised, his breath ragged from the chase. His eyes locked immediately onto Matt, leaning casually against a metal shelving unit, arms crossed over his chest. 

“You’re cornered, Matt,” Shiro growled, his voice low and commanding. “It’s over.”

Matt tilted his head, his smirk slow and infuriatingly calm. “Is it, though? You seem out of breath. Chasing me too hard, Takashi?”

Shiro’s jaw tightened, his grip on the gun steady as his chest heaved. “Stop playing games.”

Matt pushed off the wall with deliberate ease, his movements languid and unhurried. “Oh, but you’ve always been so fun to play with,” he murmured, his voice a soft drawl that sent a ripple down Shiro’s spine.

The tension snapped as Matt lunged.

He closed the distance between them in a heartbeat, his hand darting for Shiro’s gun. Shiro moved on instinct, twisting his body to keep the weapon out of reach, but Matt’s momentum slammed them both into the shelving unit with a metallic clang. The impact knocked the breath from Shiro’s lungs, his back pressed against cold steel as Matt’s body collided with his.

Their faces were inches apart, their breaths mingling in the charged space between them. Matt’s fingers clawed for the gun, his strength wiry but relentless. Shiro struggled, his grip tightening as their bodies pressed together in a frantic, heated struggle.

“Stop fighting me!” Shiro growled, his voice thick with frustration, his tone a desperate command.

“Make me,” Matt shot back, his lips curling into a wicked grin, even as his eyes flickered with something deeper.

Shiro twisted, using his strength to shove Matt backward. They stumbled together, their bodies tangling as they fell to the floor in a chaotic heap. Matt landed on top, his hands grappling for the gun still clutched in Shiro’s hand. The weight of him pinned Shiro down, their hips pressed together, the friction between them impossible to ignore.

“Matt—” Shiro started, his voice a warning, but it broke as Matt’s knee shifted between his thighs.

Matt’s smile wavered, his breath coming in harsh gasps as he pressed closer, his forehead nearly touching Shiro’s. “I should hate you for chasing me like this,” he murmured, his voice low and charged with emotion. “But I don’t.”

Shiro’s resolve faltered for the briefest moment, his grip on the gun loosening. Matt felt it, seizing the opening. His fingers closed around Shiro’s hand, twisting the weapon free with a sudden burst of strength.

The shot rang out, a deafening crack that echoed through the confined space.

Shiro’s body jolted as white-hot pain lanced through his shoulder, a guttural cry escaping him. His free hand instinctively clutched at the wound, his vision blurring as he struggled to process the searing agony.

Matt froze, his chest heaving as he stared at Shiro with wide, panicked eyes. The gun clattered to the floor, forgotten as his hands hovered uselessly in the air, trembling. His expression was a raw, unfiltered mix of emotions—regret, terror, longing.

“Takashi,” Matt whispered, his voice cracking, the name breaking like glass between them.

Shiro groaned, his breaths shallow as he tried to push himself upright. His vision swam, but he focused on Matt’s face, searching for answers in the turmoil written there.

Matt’s lips parted, his voice trembling as he spoke. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean—” He cut himself off, his hands running through his hair as if trying to ground himself. His movements were frantic, his composure shattered.

“Matt,” Shiro rasped, his voice strained. His gaze bore into Matt’s, catching the flicker of something painfully familiar beneath the chaos. It was the Matt he remembered—the one who’d stood by his side, who had smiled at him with warmth instead of malice.

Matt fell back onto his heels, his hands trembling as he looked down at Shiro. The blood soaking through Shiro’s shirt seemed to paralyze him, his chest rising and falling with shallow, uneven breaths.

“I didn’t want this,” Matt rasped, his voice trembling. His eyes glistened, his expression laid bare—desperate, lost, and so painfully in love.

Shiro’s heart twisted, the pain in his chest matching the searing throb of his shoulder. “Then stop running,” he breathed, his voice cracking with emotion. “Stop doing this.”

Matt’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, his teeth gritting, waging an internal battle he couldn’t win. He shook his head, his movements sharp and jerky. “I can’t.”

“Matt,” Shiro pleaded, his hand outstretched despite the pain, blood staining his fingers as they reached for him. “Please.”

For a moment, Matt hesitated. His gaze lingered on Shiro’s outstretched hand, his own trembling as though drawn to it. But then, his breath hitched, and the fear in his eyes deepened.

“I’m sorry,” Matt choked out, his voice breaking.

Before Shiro could respond, Matt bolted to his feet and stumbled toward the door. His movements were uncoordinated, frantic, but he didn’t look back.

Shiro slumped against the cold concrete floor, his body trembling as the weight of the encounter bore down on him. His blood pooled beneath him, warm and sticky, but it was the ache in his chest that consumed him.

‘Cause despite everything—despite the pain, the betrayal, the chaos—he couldn’t deny the truth.

Matt still loved him.

And that made it hurt so much more.

Chapter Text

The house was quiet when Pidge stepped inside, their movements careful as they shut the door behind them. They slipped off their shoes and hung their coat on the back of a dining room chair. The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of a streetlight filtering through the curtains, and the silence felt heavy. Sam wasn’t home yet, which wasn’t unusual, but the empty house seemed to amplify the ache in Pidge’s bruised ribs and sides. Every step sent a faint twinge of pain through their body, but they ignored it, heading toward the kitchen.

They froze mid-step.

A faint breeze tickled their skin, carrying with it the sharp chill of the night air. The realization hit them with a jolt: a window had been left open. Their mind raced as they scanned the room, the sound of their heartbeat suddenly too loud in the stillness.

Slowly, they followed the breeze, ascending the stairs. Each creak of the floorboards felt like a warning in the silence. The air grew colder as they neared the source, the faint draft pulling them through the hallway. When they reached their room, the door was slightly ajar.

Pidge pushed it open cautiously, the hinges groaning softly. Inside, the room was pitch black, the familiar shapes of their belongings obscured by the dark. They hesitated, their fingers brushing the wall in search of the light switch, but something stopped them—a feeling, a presence, unshakable.

Their eyes began to adjust to the darkness, and that’s when they saw it.

A silhouette sat on the windowsill, one leg swung lazily over the edge, the other pulled up to their chest. The figure’s posture was relaxed, but there was an undercurrent of tension that set Pidge on edge. They caught the faint glint of metal—a gun, spinning slowly in the figure’s hand. The other arm rested on their knee, their head lolled to the side as if they were caught between exhaustion and thought.

Pidge’s breath hitched, their body going rigid as they whispered, “Matt?”

The figure stirred at the sound of their voice, his head rolling upright to look at them. In the dim light, Matt’s eyes glinted—sharp, focused, and piercing. His lips curled into a gentle smile, one that felt achingly familiar despite everything that had happened.

“Hey, Pidge,” Matt murmured, his voice warm but laced with something Pidge couldn’t quite place. “It’s been a while.”

Their eyes flicked toward the window, to the lock that had been broken for years. A wave of frustration swept through them as they realized their mistake. “Damn it,” Pidge muttered under their breath. Matt had used that window countless times to sneak in and out when they were younger, a habit that had persisted even after he moved out.

Matt’s gaze followed theirs, his smile widening slightly. “You really should’ve fixed that lock,” he mused. “Made it too easy.”

Pidge forced themselves to stay calm, their hand instinctively brushing their side. Their heart sank as they realized they’d left their gun downstairs on the kitchen table. They cursed themselves silently, trying to keep their breathing steady.

“What are you doing here?” Pidge asked, their voice tight.

Matt tilted his head, his expression softening. “Came to see you,” he shrugged, as though the answer were obvious. He twirled the gun once more before setting it down beside him, resting his hands on his knee. “I missed you.”

Pidge hesitated, their chest tightening at his words. Despite everything—despite the murders, the chaos, the danger—this moment felt painfully familiar. He wasn’t putting on the act they’d seen so many times before. He wasn’t the manic, larger-than-life figure taunting the FBI. He was just… Matt. Their brother. And for a brief, fragile moment, Pidge allowed themselves to believe it.

“You hit me,” Pidge muttered, their voice quieter now, tinged with uncertainty. “Earlier. In the ribs.”

Matt’s smile faltered, his eyes dropping to the floor. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Sorry about that. You weren’t the target. Shiro was.”

Pidge’s hand tightened over their side. “That doesn’t make it okay, Matt.”

“I know,” Matt admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. He looked up at them, his gaze earnest in a way that made Pidge’s stomach twist. “But I didn’t want to hurt you. I never want to hurt you.”

For a moment, they stood in silence, the weight of unspoken words filling the space between them. Pidge’s guilt gnawed at them, the part of them that still saw their brother, the part that missed him desperately, warring with the knowledge of what he’d become.

They shook their head, trying to steady themselves. “You pushed Allura out a window, Matt.”

Matt’s expression shifted into something unreadable. He shrugged, leaning back slightly against the frame. “She’ll live.”

“You also shot Shiro in the shoulder,” Pidge continued, their voice gaining strength.

At that, Matt winced. The guilt in his expression was palpable as he muttered, “That was… genuinely an accident.” He hesitated, then added, “Tell him I’m sorry. And to leave the safety on when wrestling for a gun.”

Pidge stared at him, their emotions warring inside them. They wanted to be furious, to hate him for what he’d become. But as Matt sat there, his posture loose, his voice soft, he felt more like the brother they’d grown up with than he had in years.

The longer they stood there, the harder it became to separate the Matt sitting on their windowsill from the Matt who had stood beside them through years of chaos and discovery. His face was softer now, unguarded, lacking the cruel smirk or calculated charm he wielded like a weapon. This Matt looked tired, almost fragile, as though the weight of everything he had done was finally beginning to crush him.

“Matt…” Pidge started, their voice trembling slightly. They wanted to ask him why, why he had to tear apart everything they knew and trusted, why he’d turned into someone they could barely recognize. But the words died in their throat, replaced by a suffocating silence.

Matt’s eyes softened as he regarded them, his smile fading into something more subdued. “You don’t have to say it,” he murmured, his voice quiet. “I know what you’re thinking.”

Pidge’s hand clenched at their side, the bruises throbbing beneath their fingers. “Do you?” they shot back, their tone sharper than they intended. “Because I don’t even know what I’m thinking anymore.”

Matt looked away, his gaze drifting to the shadows that stretched across the room. “You think I’m a monster ,” he spat out the word like it tasted foul on his tongue, yet as if he had long since accepted them as truth. “Maybe I am. But not to you, Pidge. Never to you.”

“Stop,” Pidge snapped, the sharpness in their voice cutting through the haze. “Stop acting like what you’ve done doesn’t matter. You can’t just walk in here, apologize for hitting me, and pretend like everything’s fine.”

Matt didn’t flinch, but there was a flicker of pain in his eyes. “I’m not pretending,” he whispered. “I know things aren’t fine. They’ll never be fine. But that doesn’t mean I don’t miss you.”

Pidge’s breath hitched, their resolve faltering. Despite everything—the lies, the blood, the chaos—a part of them wanted to believe him. Wanted to cling to the fragile hope that somewhere beneath the layers of carnage and deceit, their brother still existed.

“You have a funny way of showing it,” they muttered, quieter now, though the bitterness lingered.

Matt chuckled softly, the sound devoid of humor. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Guess I do.”

The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. Pidge’s mind raced, trying to reconcile the brother they had loved with the man who had left a trail of destruction in his wake. Their eyes flicked to the gun resting beside Matt, its polished surface catching the faint light from the window.

“Why are you really here, Matt?” they asked finally, their voice steady despite the storm inside them. “What do you want from me?”

Matt’s gaze snapped back to them, his expression unreadable. For a moment, he didn’t answer, his fingers drumming absently against his knee. Then, with a deep sigh, he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his thighs as he met Pidge’s eyes.

“I wanted to see you,” he said simply. “To remind myself that not everything’s broken.”

Pidge’s throat tightened, their chest aching with the weight of his words. “You’re the one who broke it,” they pointed out, the accusation sharp and cutting.

Matt nodded slowly, his shoulders sagging as though the admission drained the fight from him. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “I know.”

Pidge’s hands trembled at their sides, the conflicting emotions threatening to overwhelm them. They wanted to scream at him, to demand answers, to make him feel the pain he had caused. But they also wanted to reach out, to pull him back from whatever abyss he had fallen into, to find the Matt who had always been there for them.

“I hate you, for what you’ve done.”

“For making me feel like this.”

Matt’s lips curved into a small, sad smile. “I know,” he said again, his voice soft. “I hate me too.”

Pidge stood frozen, Matt’s words sinking into them like weights. The raw honesty in his voice—the way he didn’t defend himself, didn’t fight back—made it impossible to hold onto their anger, no matter how desperately they wanted to. The tightness in their chest grew unbearable, a tangle of rage, grief, and longing.

Pidge moved, stepping closer to him. “Why, Matt?” they asked, their voice cracking under the strain of holding everything in. “Why did you have to ruin everything?”

Matt exhaled slowly, the sound laden with exhaustion that seemed to seep into every corner of the room. Rising from the windowsill with deliberate slowness, his movements were unhurried, almost cautious, as though any sudden action might shatter the fragile moment between them.

“I don’t know if I can explain it in a way that makes sense,” his voice carried a weight of vulnerability that Pidge hadn’t expected. “But I’ll try.”

Before he could continue, Matt reached for the gun resting on the windowsill beside him. His fingers brushed the cold metal, and with a practiced motion, he flipped the safety on. The soft click echoed faintly in the stillness. Then, with the ease of familiarity, he tucked the weapon into the waistband of his jeans, the movement fluid and unassuming.

Pidge’s eyes flicked to the gun, unease rippling through them despite the gesture’s nonchalance. The tension in the room deepened for a breathless moment. But Matt’s hands came up, palms open and unthreatening, his gaze soft and searching as if to silently assure them he meant no harm.

What happened next caught Matt off guard.

Pidge stepped forward abruptly, their movements hesitant but resolute, and wrapped their arms around him. The hug was stiff at first, their hold tentative and unsure, as if they feared he might pull away or reject the gesture. For a heartbeat, Matt froze, his arms hanging awkwardly at his sides as though the simple act of affection was foreign to him now.

And then, the weight of the tension in his body finally gave way, he returned the embrace. His arms slid around them, steady and firm but not overbearing, grounding in a way that Pidge hadn’t realized they needed.

Silent tears spilled from Pidge’s eyes, hot streaks trailing down their face as they buried it against Matt’s shoulder. They clung to him, their fingers clutching the back of his shirt as their body shook with the effort of suppressing sobs. The faint, familiar scent of him—a mix of pine and paper, faint traces of gunpowder—washed over them, tugging painfully at memories of better days.

Matt didn’t speak. He just held them, his chin resting lightly on the top of their head. His breaths were steady, his body warm and solid against theirs, a quiet reassurance that for this moment, at least, he was still there. Still the brother they had known.

When Pidge finally pulled back, wiping at their face with trembling hands, they couldn’t bring themself to meet his eyes. “Why?” they whispered again. “Why are you doing this, Matt?”

Matt sighed, his shoulders slumping as he took a step back. Without a word, he turned and moved to sit on the edge of Pidge’s bed. He patted the spot beside him, his expression heavy with something between resignation and regret.

“Come sit,” he murmured. “It’s… complicated. But I’ll tell you what I can.”

Pidge hesitated, their instincts screaming at them to stay guarded, to keep their distance. But the look in Matt’s eyes—the way it seemed to beg for understanding, for some kind of connection—was too familiar to ignore. Slowly, reluctantly, they crossed the room and sat beside him.

Matt leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared at the floor. 

Chapter Text

The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating, as Matt stared down at his hands. His fingers picked absently at the frayed edge of his hoodie, the motions small and mechanical. Pidge sat beside him on the bed, their shoulder brushing against his in a touch that felt fragile yet grounding.

“Did Dad tell you about the incident with Mom?” Matt asked, voice barely above a whisper. It sounded thin, worn, as though the question had scraped its way out of him.

Pidge nodded slowly, the movement hesitant. “He told me what he knew,” they whispered. “That you and Mom were taken. That she… she didn’t make it. But he said there were things you never told him.”

Matt’s lips pressed into a thin line. He gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod, his gaze fixed somewhere far away. “There are,” he admitted, his voice tight. “Things he wouldn’t have wanted to know. Things he shouldn’t have to carry.”

Pidge’s heart twisted, their hands tightening into fists on their lap. “I want to know,” their voice steady despite the tremor in their chest. “Whatever it is, I can handle it.”

Matt hesitated, his jaw working as he wrestled with his thoughts. Finally, he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and let out a breath that seemed to take everything out of him. “It wasn’t just the kidnapping,” he began slowly. “That was bad enough. But it’s what came after.”

Pidge stayed silent, waiting, their stomach knotting as Matt continued.

“They didn’t leave us much,” Matt muttered, his tone distant. “Not food. Not water. Not warmth. It was cold. So cold it felt like it would crawl inside you and never leave. We were… desperate.”

His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat roughly. His hands stilled, gripping the edge of the bed tightly. “After Mom was gone, it got worse. I didn’t think it could, but it did. Hunger isn’t just something you feel in your stomach—it’s in your head. It makes you think things you’d never think otherwise. Do things…”

Matt trailed off, his eyes unfocused, as though he were staring at something only he could see. “I told myself I wouldn’t. That no matter how bad it got, I wouldn’t touch what they gave me. But I… I didn’t have a choice.”

Pidge’s breath hitched, but they didn’t interrupt. They shifted slightly, their knee brushing against Matt’s, offering a small, silent reassurance.

“They made it worse,” Matt spat, his voice bitter. “Scar would sit there, watching me. He’d hold the plate out like he was waiting for me to break. And I did.” His fingers curled tightly around his knees, his knuckles turning white. “I don’t remember picking it up. But I remember the weight of it. How it felt warm against my hands, even though everything else was cold.”

Pidge’s chest ached as Matt’s voice dipped lower, his words halting. He wasn’t looking at them anymore, his gaze fixed on the floor. “The smell was the worst part,” he choked out. “It was everywhere. Sweet and sharp and… metallic. It got into everything. The air. My skin. My clothes. I couldn’t escape it. It followed me, even when I wasn’t near it.”

He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing, and his hands clenched tighter. “The first bite…” He shook his head, his breath hitching. “It wasn’t food. It didn’t feel like food. It felt wrong. But I kept going because I had to. Because every time I stopped, they made it clear what would happen if I didn’t.”

Matt’s shoulders hunched, his voice trembling as he continued. “I told myself it was just meat. That it didn’t matter where it came from. But it did. I knew what it was. I knew.”

Pidge couldn’t hold back the tears that welled in their eyes, their chest tightening painfully. “Matt…” they whispered, their voice breaking.

He finally looked at them, his expression raw, his eyes glassy. “I don’t know why I’m still here,” he admitted, his voice hollow. “Why I’m the one who made it out when she didn’t. When she… when she saved me.”

Pidge reached out, their hand trembling as it rested on Matt’s arm. “It wasn’t your fault,” they stated, their voice choked with emotion. “None of it was your fault.”

Matt shook his head, his lips pressing into a thin line as he stared down at where their hand touched his arm. “Doesn’t feel that way,” he murmured. “Not when every time I close my eyes, I can still taste it. Smell it. Hear it.”

The silence that followed was heavy and unrelenting. Pidge tightened their grip on Matt’s arm, their tears falling freely now. “You didn’t deserve that,” their voice trembled. “You didn’t deserve any of it.”

Matt let out a shaky breath, his body leaning slightly toward theirs as though he were drawn to the comfort they offered. “I know you mean that,” he murmured. “But it doesn’t change what happened.”

Pidge didn’t have an answer. Instead, they shifted closer, wrapping their arms around him tightly. Matt stiffened for a moment before his body sagged, his forehead resting against their shoulder as the weight of everything he had carried for years seemed to press down on him all at once.

And for a long while, neither of them spoke.

Pidge bolted upright, their heart pounding as a memory slammed into them like a freight train. It was a small thing, buried under years of chaos and distraction, but now it roared back with startling clarity.

The kitchen. The smell of something rich and spiced. Matt at the stove, humming under his breath, a rare moment of peace before everything had spiraled. He’d been so proud of the dish he’d made—a unique preparation, something with liver.

Pidge’s stomach twisted violently. Their eyes widened, and they snapped their head around to Matt, who was still slouched beside them, his arms loosely wrapped around himself.

“You…” Pidge’s voice cracked as the words tumbled out. “That time you cooked for me and Dad. The liver. Was it—”

They couldn’t finish the sentence, but they didn’t need to. The sharpness in their voice made Matt sit up straighter, his head tilting slightly as though weighing his response.

The silence between them stretched unbearably long, the tension thick enough to choke on.

Pidge’s breath came faster, their chest tight as they pressed, “Did you… did you serve us—”

Matt’s expression went utterly blank, his features smoothing into an unreadable mask. 

“Yes,” he muttered, the word cutting through the air like a blade. “I did.”

Pidge jerked back, their stomach heaving. A hand flew to their mouth, their skin pale and clammy as bile rose in their throat. “Oh my God,” they gasped, their voice muffled behind their hand.

Matt didn’t move. He didn’t apologize, didn’t try to explain. He simply sat there, his calmness unnerving in its stillness.

“Why?” Pidge’s voice rose, sharp and trembling. “Why the hell would you do that? If it was so—” Their voice broke, but they pushed on, their words spilling out in a frantic rush. “If the incident was so traumatizing, if it messed you up so badly, why would you—”

Matt turned to them then, his gaze steady, his face composed in a way Pidge had rarely seen before. His voice, when he spoke, was low and measured, almost disconcertingly serene.

“I’m well aware that the experience left me more than fucked up in the head,” he said, his tone unflinching. “I know what it did to me, Pidge. I’ve had a long time to think about it. To live with it.”

Pidge stared at him, their chest heaving as their mind raced to process his words. “Then why—”

“Because,” Matt interrupted, his calmness chilling in its simplicity, “I came to realize something about the world. The powerful, the rich, the rude—they take and take and take, without a second thought for the people they hurt.”

He leaned back slightly, his fingers lacing together in his lap as he spoke. “And there’s an old saying, isn’t there? ‘Eat the rich.’”

Pidge’s breath hitched, their eyes widening in horror as the weight of his words sank in. “You’re joking,” they whispered, though there was no humor in his expression.

Matt shook his head, his voice quiet but firm. “I’m not.”

“You fed us people?” Pidge’s voice cracked, their hands trembling in their lap. “You fed us people to make some… some kind of point?”

Matt’s lips twitched into a faint, humorless smile. “Not people. Not anymore. Just meat. And it wasn’t about making a point—it was about taking back something they tried to take from me. Control.”

Pidge shot to their feet, pacing a few steps away as the nausea roiled in their gut. Their mind spun, grappling with the implications, the sheer horror of what he’d done.

“That’s insane,” they snapped, their voice breaking. “That’s—” They whirled back to face him, their eyes blazing. “You’re sick, Matt. You need help.”

Matt tilted his head, his gaze unflinching. “I’ve heard that before,” he said evenly. “But I don’t think you get it, Pidge. You can’t understand what it’s like to be made into something you didn’t choose. To be forced into a life you can’t escape.”

“And this is how you deal with it?” Pidge’s voice rose, their fists clenching at their sides. “By becoming just as monstrous as the people who hurt you?”

Matt flinched, just barely, the faintest crack in his calm demeanor. “I never hurt you,” he murmured, almost pleading. “I’d never hurt you.”

“You fed me human flesh, Matt!” Pidge shouted, their voice breaking under the weight of their fury and revulsion. “That’s—” Their words faltered as tears welled in their eyes, their voice trembling. “That’s not something you come back from.”

Matt’s shoulders sagged slightly, his hands dropping to his sides. For a moment, he looked almost small, the weight of his choices pressing down on him. But when he met Pidge’s gaze again, his eyes were steady.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he whispered. “I don’t expect you to. But I’m still your brother, Pidge. And whether you hate me or not, I’m not going anywhere.”

Pidge’s breath hitched, their body trembling with the force of their emotions. “You already left,” they whispered, their voice thick with tears. “You left the moment you became this.”

Pidge’s chest rose and fell with labored breaths, their fists clenching and unclenching at their sides. They stared at Matt, at the faint flicker of emotion that crossed his face—the sadness, the resignation—but it didn’t soften the knot of anger and disgust twisting in their gut.

“Leave,” Pidge said, their voice trembling but firm. The single word hung in the air, sharp and unyielding.

Matt’s expression didn’t change, though something in his eyes dimmed, as if a light had flickered out. He studied them for a moment longer, his gaze searching their face for… something. Forgiveness? Understanding? A thread of connection? Whatever he was looking for, he didn’t find it.

A sad smile curved his lips, soft and fleeting, gone almost as quickly as it appeared. “Alright,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

He rose to his feet with a quiet grace, his movements unhurried, as though reluctant to sever whatever remained of their bond. As he walked toward the window, the faint creak of the frame broke the suffocating silence in the room.

Matt paused, one hand resting on the windowsill, and glanced back over his shoulder. For a brief moment, it seemed like he might say something, like he was trying to gather the courage for one last attempt at reconciliation. But instead, he simply nodded, his gaze heavy with unspoken words.

And then he was gone, slipping out the window with practiced ease, the faint crunch of his boots on the snow below the only sound marking his departure.

Pidge stood frozen, their fists still trembling, their breaths coming in shallow, uneven gasps. The room felt unbearably still in Matt’s absence, the weight of what had just transpired pressing down on them like a crushing tide.

Slowly, as if in a daze, they moved to the window. They stared out into the darkness, the faint outline of Matt’s figure vanishing into the shadows of the street beyond. The cold air bit at their skin, sharp and unrelenting, but they barely felt it.

With trembling hands, Pidge reached out and closed the window, sealing the lock with a deliberate click. The action felt final, like slamming the door on something they couldn’t bear to face. But the sense of closure they’d hoped for didn’t come.

Instead, the weight of everything hit them all at once.

Their knees buckled, and they sank to the floor, their hands gripping the edge of the windowsill as sobs tore from their chest. The sound was raw, ragged, a mixture of anguish and betrayal that echoed in the empty room.

Pidge curled into themselves, their tears soaking into the fabric of their sleeves as their body shook with each ragged breath. The image of Matt—calm, composed, and utterly unapologetic—seared itself into their mind, replaying over and over like a haunting refrain.

The brother they had idolized, the person they had once trusted above all else, was gone. And in his place was someone they barely recognized, someone who had crossed lines Pidge could never forgive.

But the worst part wasn’t the betrayal.

It was the small, aching part of them that still wanted to believe he could be saved.

Pidge pressed their forehead against the floor, their sobs quieting into soft, shuddering breaths. The tears kept coming, hot and unrelenting, as they mourned not just the brother they had lost, but the fragile hope that he might ever come back.

And in the suffocating silence of the empty house, Pidge let themselves break.

Chapter Text

The steady beeping of a heart monitor pulled Shiro from the fog of unconsciousness. His eyelids felt heavy, as if weighted down, but he managed to pry them open. The sterile white ceiling tiles of the hospital greeted him, and the faint scent of disinfectant filled his nose. His body ached, a dull, persistent throb centered in his left shoulder.

“Hey,” a familiar voice said softly.

Shiro turned his head, wincing as the movement tugged at the stitches in his shoulder. Keith sat in a chair beside him, his arms crossed, his expression caught between relief and exasperation. Sam stood just behind Keith, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, his face drawn and tired.

Shiro forced a small smile. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he rasped, his voice hoarse.

Keith’s lips twitched into a reluctant smile. “You’ve got to stop getting hurt,” he shot back, his tone dry but affectionate.

Shiro chuckled, the sound catching in his throat as pain flared through his shoulder. He hissed softly, his free hand lifting to press against his shoulder. “Laughing—bad idea.”

“You don’t say,” Keith replied, leaning back in his chair. Despite his sarcastic tone, the worry in his eyes hadn’t faded.

Sam stepped closer, his expression grim but steady. “Matt shot you in the shoulder,” he said, his voice even. “You lost a lot of blood, but the bullet didn’t hit anything vital. You’re lucky.”

Shiro’s brows furrowed as fragmented memories of the chase and fight flooded back. Matt’s face, twisted with regret and panic, flashed through his mind. “He… disappeared, didn’t he?” Shiro asked, his tone heavy with resignation.

Sam nodded. “By the time backup arrived, he was gone. We’ve got teams searching, but he’s always been good at vanishing.”

Shiro’s gaze shifted to the ceiling, his chest tightening as he processed the information. He took a slow, steadying breath before another memory surfaced—a different face, another moment of terror.

“Allura,” Shiro blurted suddenly, turning his head toward Sam. “He pushed her out a second-story window. Is she…?”

“She’s alive,” Sam confirmed, though his tone was tinged with sadness. “But the fall fractured her pelvis and damaged her lower spine. She’ll recover, but… she’s going to have issues standing and walking. She’ll need a cane from now on.”

Shiro closed his eyes, the weight of Sam’s words settling over him like a heavy blanket. Guilt clawed at his chest, sharp and relentless. “This is my fault,” he murmured. “If I’d stopped him sooner—”

“Don’t do that,” Keith interrupted, his voice firm. “This isn’t on you. Matt made his choices. You did everything you could.”

Shiro opened his eyes, meeting Keith’s intense gaze. “It doesn’t feel like enough,” he whispered.

Sam placed a reassuring hand on Shiro’s uninjured shoulder. “Shiro, you’ve done more than anyone could ask. You saved Allura’s life, even if the cost was high. And we’ll find Matt. You have my word.”

Shiro nodded faintly, though the guilt didn’t ease. He stared at the ceiling, his mind replaying the fight, the fleeting glimpse of the Matt he used to know. “He didn’t mean to shoot me,” Shiro murmured softly, almost to himself. “It was an accident.”

Keith straightened, his brow furrowing. “An accident?” he echoed, disbelief lacing his voice. “Shiro, he still pulled the trigger.”

Shiro turned his head slightly, his eyes meeting Keith’s. “I saw it in his eyes, Keith. He regretted it the second it happened.”

Keith’s jaw tightened, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Maybe,” he finally gritted out, though his tone held skepticism. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you could’ve died.”

“I know,” Shiro admitted, his voice heavy with exhaustion. “But it matters to me. I have to believe that some part of him didn’t want this.”

Keith exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Shiro, if you keep giving him the benefit of the doubt, and it’s going to get you killed.”

The room fell silent, the weight of Keith’s words pressing down on them both. The steady beeping of the heart monitor filled the space, a rhythmic reminder of how close Shiro had come to losing everything.

Despite the lingering ache in his chest—both physical and emotional—Shiro forced himself to focus on the present. There would be time to wrestle with his feelings about Matt later. Right now, he was grateful for the people who had stayed by his side.

“Thanks for being here,” Shiro said, his voice quiet but sincere.

Keith leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “Always,” he replied firmly, the tension in his expression softening ever so slightly.

Shiro closed his eyes again, letting their presence ground him as he prepared for whatever came next.

--

Shiro awoke to the faint hum of machinery, the rhythmic beep of his heart monitor blending with the gentle rustle of fabric in the darkened room. For a moment, he lay still, his thoughts sluggish as he blinked against the dim light filtering in from the cracked window.

The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of rain, and the curtains danced lightly in the breeze. Shiro shifted slightly, a twinge of pain shooting through his shoulder as the movement pulled at his stitches. He let out a soft hiss, turning his head to take in the details of the quiet room.

On the small desk across from his bed, a collection of flowers and cards sat in disarray, illuminated by the pale glow of a streetlamp outside. Brightly colored blooms and cheerful messages were scattered about, but one arrangement stood out starkly against the rest.

A bouquet of white orchids.

Shiro stared at it, his brow furrowing as he registered the delicate blossoms, their pale petals nearly glowing in the dim light. White orchids. Apology. The meaning struck him almost immediately, but his tired mind struggled to connect the dots.

And then it hit him.

The window was cracked.

Shiro’s heart thudded painfully against his ribs as his gaze darted to the curtains, their subtle movements betraying the draft coming in from outside. The lock was undone, hanging loosely, just as he remembered it from earlier that evening.

Matt.

The realization settled heavily in his chest, the implications turning over in his mind like a stone skipping across water. He stared at the orchids, his thoughts racing. It couldn’t be a coincidence. None of his colleagues would’ve chosen such a specific flower—none of them would’ve known its meaning, or its significance to this moment.

Matt had been here.

Shiro’s breath quickened as his mind replayed the fight, the way Matt had hesitated, the look in his eyes before pulling the trigger. And now, here was this—this quiet, unspoken apology, left in the stillness of his hospital room.

For shooting him? For disappearing? For everything?

His hand drifted to his bandaged shoulder, his fingers pressing lightly against the wound as if to remind himself it was real. Matt had been so close—close enough to leave the orchids, close enough to watch him as he slept. The thought sent a chill down his spine, though it wasn’t entirely fear that coursed through him.

What was it, then?

Shiro’s gaze lingered on the bouquet, the pristine petals a sharp contrast to the mess Matt had left in his wake. He wanted to be angry, to push away the flicker of warmth that crept into his chest. 

But he couldn’t.

The room felt too quiet now, the faint hum of the monitor barely breaking the stillness. Shiro exhaled slowly, forcing himself to calm the erratic rhythm of his thoughts.

Matt had been here.

--

The hospital was shrouded in silence, the kind that only the dead of night could bring. It wasn’t the silence of peace, but of absence—the kind that hung heavy in sterile rooms and sterile halls, broken only by the rhythmic beeping of machines and the faint hum of the AC.

Matt scaled the wall with practiced ease, his movements precise and deliberate. His fingers gripped the ledge, and he hoisted himself up to the window of Shiro’s room. The frame creaked faintly under his weight, but he froze only briefly before sliding inside, careful not to let his boots make a sound on the floor.

The air inside was cool, tinged with the antiseptic scent of a hospital. The room was dim, the only light coming from the faint glow of monitors and the pale moonlight filtering through the partially open curtains. The faint breeze from the window stirred the fabric, creating ghostly movements that danced in the corners of his vision.

Matt’s gaze was drawn immediately to the figure lying in the hospital bed.

Shiro.

Even now, battered and bandaged, Shiro exuded a quiet strength. The lines of his face, usually set with determination or focus, were soft in sleep. His broad chest rose and fell steadily, the rhythm matching the steady beeping of the heart monitor. Moonlight kissed the edges of his silver hair, casting him in a pale glow that made Matt’s breath catch.

For a moment, Matt just stood there, watching. He didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to break the fragile stillness of this scene, this rare, unguarded version of Shiro.

But then his gaze fell to the bandages on Shiro’s shoulder, stark white against his skin.

Matt’s stomach churned, a dull ache settling in his chest. The sight of the bandages brought it all back—the struggle, the shot, the way Shiro’s body had jolted when the bullet struck. He hadn’t meant to do it. The gun had been there, the panic had set in, and his body had moved before his mind could stop it.

But intent didn’t erase the consequences. 

Matt exhaled softly, a sound barely audible in the still room, and turned his attention to the small table near the bed. It was cluttered with well-meaning offerings: bright bouquets of daisies and carnations, cheerful cards with scripted messages like Get Well Soon! and You’re in Our Thoughts. The sheer brightness of it all felt wrong, almost jarring against the muted solemnity of the room.

From his coat, Matt pulled a bouquet of his own. It wasn’t loud or colorful like the others. The white orchids were simple and elegant, their pristine petals gleaming faintly in the moonlight. They were deliberate, chosen for what they represented—apology. Regret. A message Matt knew Shiro would understand the moment he saw them.

With a careful hand, Matt placed the orchids in the center of the table. He took a moment to adjust their position, nudging aside a particularly garish vase of sunflowers so the orchids could sit unobstructed. He smoothed a stray leaf, ensuring the bouquet was perfect.

Shiro would know.

When he woke, he’d see the orchids, and he’d recognize them immediately. He’d know who had been here. It was a risk—leaving something so unmistakably tied to him—but Matt didn’t care. The orchids weren’t a threat this time. They weren’t a calling card of chaos. 

A part of Matt wished he could stay long enough to see Shiro’s reaction. But he knew he couldn’t.

Still, he lingered.

Matt turned back to Shiro, his feet carrying him closer to the bed almost unconsciously. Shiro’s face was so calm, so untroubled in sleep. His lips were slightly parted, his brow smooth, unburdened by the weight of the world he so often carried. It was a rare sight—one Matt doubted anyone else had the privilege of seeing.

A pang of something sharp and aching pierced through Matt’s chest. Guilt, longing, regret—it was all tangled together, impossible to unravel. He had no right to be here. No right to watch Shiro like this, to soak in the quiet comfort of his presence after everything he’d done.

But he couldn’t bring himself to leave.

Matt’s eyes drifted back to the bandages, and the guilt surged again, heavier this time. He didn’t want to admit it, but part of him had hoped the wound wasn’t serious. That it hadn’t caused Shiro too much pain. That he could somehow justify this—tell himself that it was just a scratch, that it didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things.

But it wasn’t just a scratch. And it did matter.

Matt clenched his fists at his sides, his nails biting into his palms as he fought the urge to reach out. To brush his fingers against Shiro’s hair, to trace the lines of his face, to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath his hand.

Instead, he stepped back, retreating toward the window.

He paused before climbing out, casting one last glance at the man he’d once known so well. Shiro looked peaceful, and for a brief, fleeting moment, Matt allowed himself to imagine a different reality. One where he wasn’t a fugitive, where Shiro wasn’t lying in a hospital bed because of him. One where they could stand side by side again without the weight of betrayal between them.

But that reality didn’t exist.

Matt slipped through the window, his movements silent and precise. He left it cracked, the faint breeze stirring the curtains as he disappeared into the night.

Chapter Text

The soft morning light filtered through the blinds, casting warm streaks of gold across the sterile walls of Shiro's hospital room. He stirred in his bed, blinking against the brightness as he adjusted to the new day. The faint murmur of activity in the hallway drifted in—a gentle reminder that life outside his room continued at its usual bustling pace.

The door creaked open, and a nurse stepped inside, her clipboard in hand and a warm, practiced smile on her face. She was middle-aged, her salt-and-pepper hair tied back neatly, and her demeanor was calm but efficient.

“Good morning, Mr. Shirogane,” she greeted, her voice cheerful yet professional. “How are you feeling today?”

Shiro shifted slightly, mindful of the dull ache in his shoulder. “Better,” he said with a faint smile. “Not ready to run a marathon, but better.”

The nurse chuckled softly as she approached his bedside. “Well, that’s good to hear. And just in time, too. The doctor’s cleared you to go home today.”

Shiro blinked, his eyebrows lifting in mild surprise. “Home? Already?”

She nodded, her smile widening. “You’ve made good progress. The wound is healing well, and your vitals are stable. Of course, you’ll still need to take it easy for a while.”

She glanced down at the clipboard in her hands before continuing. “There are a couple of things we need to go over before you leave. First, no gun use or fieldwork for at least two months. You’ll need to give yourself time to heal properly—no exceptions.”

Shiro’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he nodded. “Understood.”

The nurse gave him a knowing look. “I mean it, Mr. Shirogane. Pushing yourself too hard too soon could cause complications. You’ve got a team that can manage things without you in the field for a little while.”

He sighed but didn’t argue. “Point taken.”

“Good.” She reached for a folder on the bedside table and handed it to him. “These are your discharge papers and release forms. You’ll need to sign them before you leave. They also include instructions for wound care, your medication schedule, and follow-up appointments. Do you have someone who can help you with transportation and getting settled at home?”

Shiro nodded as he flipped through the papers, scanning the contents. “Yeah, I’ve got people I can call.”

The nurse placed a pen on the tray table beside him and gestured toward the folder. “Take your time to read through it, and let me know if you have any questions. I’ll come back in a bit to collect everything.”

She turned to leave but paused at the door. “And remember—just because you’re going home doesn’t mean you’re invincible. Take care of yourself.”

Shiro chuckled softly. “I’ll do my best.”

With a satisfied nod, the nurse stepped out, leaving Shiro alone with the paperwork. He leaned back against the pillows, the weight of the moment settling over him. He was going home. But what would home feel like now, after everything that had happened?

He glanced toward the table where the white orchids still sat, pristine and untouched, standing out starkly among the other bright, cheery bouquets. His gaze lingered on them, his thoughts turning to the man who’d left them.

Matt.

The thought was a shadow that never seemed to leave him, no matter how much time passed. Shiro shook his head, trying to push the lingering ache aside as he reached for the pen. One step at a time, he told himself. First, home. Then, figuring out how to move forward.

--

The car came to a gentle stop in front of Shiro's house, the engine’s hum fading into the quiet of the neighborhood. Shiro sighed, reaching for the door handle as Keith glanced at him from the driver’s seat.

“You ready?” Keith asked, his voice a mix of concern and caution.

“Yeah,” Shiro replied, though the weight of exhaustion tugged at his words. “Just glad to be back.”

They stepped out of the car together, the sound of gravel crunching underfoot breaking the silence. Shiro moved steadily toward the door, keys in hand, while Keith followed a step behind.

The door unlocked with a soft click, and Shiro pushed it open, stepping into the familiar space. The comforting scent of home—a mix of polished wood and faint coffee—greeted him. But his steps faltered almost immediately.

Shiro froze in the entryway, his eyes locking on the kitchen counter ahead. There, resting alone on the polished surface, was a single pink camellia. Its soft petals seemed to glow in the dim afternoon light filtering through the windows.

For a moment, Shiro’s mind refused to process it. The sight of the flower was so out of place, his breath caught in his throat.

Keith stepped in behind him, shutting the door with a quiet thud. “Shiro?” he asked, his voice low, already sensing something was wrong.

When Shiro didn’t answer, Keith followed his gaze to the kitchen counter. His eyes landed on the camellia, and his body went rigid.

“What the hell is that?” Keith muttered, his tone sharp with suspicion.

Shiro stepped forward slowly, his movements cautious, as if the flower might shatter under his gaze. His stomach churned, and his mind raced to connect the dots. He stopped at the counter, staring down at the delicate bloom.

“He’s been here,” Shiro said softly, his voice barely audible.

Keith’s frown deepened, and his fists clenched at his sides. “Matt.”

The name felt like a slap in the silence. Keith moved closer, his sharp eyes scanning the room, checking every corner as if Matt might still be lurking.

Shiro reached out hesitantly, his fingers brushing against the camellia’s soft petals. A memory surfaced—Matt’s affinity for gestures steeped in meaning, his need to send messages without speaking directly. Shiro’s chest tightened.

“Do you think he’s still here?” Keith asked, his voice low and edged with tension.

Shiro shook his head, though unease prickled at his skin. “No. He wouldn’t stay.”

Keith’s gaze darted around the room. “We should’ve swept the place before you got home,” he muttered. “He’s trying to tell you something.”

Shiro nodded absently, his attention fixed on the flower. “I know,” he murmured. He pulled out his phone, his fingers moving almost instinctively as he searched for the meaning of a pink camellia.

The answer appeared on the screen: longing .

Shiro’s breath hitched, the weight of the word settling heavily in his chest. Longing. He stared down at the flower, his thoughts tangled with confusion and sorrow.

Keith stepped closer, his voice cutting through the quiet. “An apology?” he asked, disbelief lacing his words. “Or some kind of game?”

Shiro shook his head, though his voice wavered as he replied, “It’s not a game.”

Keith’s expression hardened. “And you believe that?”

Shiro looked up from the camellia, meeting Keith’s gaze. “Yes,” he said firmly, though the flicker of doubt in his own heart betrayed him.

Keith’s frustration was palpable, his hands balling into fists. “Shiro, this doesn’t change anything. He’s still dangerous. This—” He gestured sharply to the flower. “This doesn’t fix what he’s done.”

“I know that,” Shiro murmured, his gaze drifting back to the bloom. But as he held it in his hand, the delicate petals brushing against his fingers, the word lingered in his mind.

Longing .

Chapter Text

The next two and a half months passed in a slow, uneasy rhythm as Shiro adjusted to life with an injured shoulder. The physical pain was manageable—a dull ache that flared when he moved too quickly—but the emotional weight was harder to ignore. Each day was a reminder of what he’d lost and the questions that still lingered, unanswered.

--

The first flower appeared two weeks after Shiro returned home.

Shiro had spent the day sorting through paperwork, the monotony a welcome distraction from his restless thoughts. He was pouring himself a cup of tea when he saw it: a single daffodil lying in the center of the kitchen counter, its golden petals almost glowing in the dim light.

His heart skipped a beat as he picked it up, turning it slowly in his hand. The window above the sink was cracked open, the breeze curling through the curtains. Shiro’s throat tightened. The meaning was clear, even without words.

We can try again. New beginnings.

He placed the flower in a glass of water, its bright presence at odds with the quiet tension that hung over the room. Shiro couldn’t bring himself to throw it away, though he told himself it was just a flower. Just a gesture. Nothing more.

When Keith came over that evening and noticed the daffodil, his brow furrowed. “What’s with the flower?” he asked, his tone suspicious.

Shiro hesitated before replying. “It was here when I got back.”

Keith’s jaw tightened, his gaze darting to the cracked window. “Matt,” he spat, the name heavy with frustration. “He’s playing games with you.”

Shiro didn’t argue. He didn’t need to.

 --

Two weeks later, Shiro found a purple hyacinth in the same spot. The bloom was striking, its rich color a sharp contrast against the pale countertop. He picked it up carefully, the faint scent stirring something uncomfortable deep within him.

I regret what I did to you.

The unspoken apology hung in the air, tangible despite Matt’s absence.

Shiro placed the hyacinth in the same glass as the daffodil, their meanings intertwining in a way that made his chest ache. When Keith visited later and saw the new addition, his frustration flared.

“Another one?” Keith demanded, his voice sharp. “What’s he trying to do? Make amends with flowers?”

“I don’t know,” Shiro replied honestly, his gaze fixed on the hyacinth. He didn’t know what Matt wanted, but he couldn’t deny the way each gesture pulled at him.

--

The black rose arrived four weeks later. Its velvety petals were impossibly dark, absorbing the light rather than reflecting it. Shiro’s breath caught when he saw it, resting alone on the counter like a quiet confession.

I’m obsessed with you. My love for you will last even in death. 

The weight of the sentiment was suffocating, and yet, Shiro couldn’t look away.

This time, he placed the rose in its own glass, separate from the others. It didn’t belong with the daffodil or the hyacinth. Its meaning was too different.

When Keith saw it, his anger boiled over. “A black rose? Are you kidding me?” he snapped. “What is he trying to say with this?”

Shiro didn’t respond, his gaze lingering on the flower as if it held some elusive answer. Keith’s voice softened, though his frustration was still evident. “Shiro, he’s trying to get in your head, to get you as obsessed with him as he is with you.”

“I know,” Shiro admitted quietly. But knowing didn’t make it any easier.

--

The final flower came two weeks later, late one evening when the house was silent.

It was a red salvia, its vivid petals demanding attention. Shiro picked it up with trembling hands, the unspoken message hitting him hard.

You’re mine, forever.

He placed the salvia next to the black rose, their meanings intertwined in a way that made his chest tighten. The air felt heavier, the weight of each flower’s significance pressing down on him.

Keith arrived later that night and immediately noticed the new addition. His expression darkened, his frustration giving way to concern. “Another one?” he asked, his voice low.

Shiro nodded, his gaze fixed on the flowers. “Yeah.”

Keith stared at the arrangement, his lips pressing into a thin line. “He’s not going to stop, Shiro. You know that, right?”

“I know,” Shiro said, his voice soft but steady.

Keith’s expression softened, his tone gentle. “What are you going to do about it?”

Shiro sighed, his gaze lingering on the salvia. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

Keith placed a hand on his good shoulder, his grip firm. “Just promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I will,” Shiro replied, though his thoughts were far from certain.

--

Pidge was the one to crack it, piecing together fragments of seemingly unrelated data. Late one night, while the rest of the team was reviewing old case files, Pidge spoke up, their voice laced with a mix of triumph and worry.

“I’ve got something,” they said, tapping their tablet. “A set of coordinates pinged off a burner phone. The number matches one Matt used before, and it’s active near an abandoned warehouse in the industrial district.”

Sam leaned in, his brow furrowing. “An abandoned warehouse? Sounds like a setup.”

“It probably is,” Pidge admitted, their tone grim. “But it’s the best lead we’ve had in weeks. If Matt’s there, he wants someone to find him. Likely you, Shiro.”

Shiro, seated at the edge of the desk, nodded slowly. “If it’s a trap, that means he’s expecting me. That’s the best chance we’ll get to confront him.”

“No way you’re going in alone,” Sam said firmly. “You’re still recovering, and Matt’s not exactly going to roll over and surrender.”

“I’m not going alone,” Shiro replied, his gaze shifting to Keith. “Keith’s coming with me.”

Keith, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, straightened. “Damn right I am,” he agreed, his tone resolute. “We’ll handle it.”

Sam’s jaw tightened, his worry evident despite his composed demeanor. “This is Matt we’re talking about. He knows how you think, Shiro. He’ll use that against you.”

“I know,” Shiro murmured. “But if he’s waiting for me, he’s not going to stop until we meet. I can’t let this drag on. It ends now.”

Pidge hesitated, their fingers tightening around the tablet. “Just... be careful,” they whispered. “He’s unpredictable.”

Shiro gave a faint smile, resting a reassuring hand on their shoulder. “We’ll bring him in.”

--

The warehouse loomed in the distance, its skeletal frame silhouetted against the pale light of the moon. Keith parked the car a block away, killing the engine as the two of them sat in silence for a moment. The air was heavy with anticipation, each of them bracing for what was to come.

“You sure about this?” Keith asked, his voice low.

“I don’t have a choice,” Shiro replied, his tone firm but calm. He opened the car door and stepped out, the cool night air biting against his skin. Keith followed, his footsteps crunching against the gravel as they approached the building.

The massive doors creaked as Shiro pushed one open, its rusted hinges groaning loudly. The warehouse interior was vast and dimly lit, the cavernous expanse of oppressive silence and shadows that seemed alive with malice. Each step he took felt like an intrusion, his boots crunching softly over broken glass and scattered debris. The cold air hung heavy with the metallic tang of rust and oil, mingling with the faint acrid bite of smoke that stung his nostrils.

His senses were on high alert, every nerve in his body taut as he moved farther in. The dim, uneven light filtering through cracked windows cast distorted patterns across the walls, turning the space into a labyrinth of uncertainty. Shiro’s fingers tightened around his firearm, his pulse steady but his thoughts racing.

Behind him, Keith hung back near the entrance, his rifle at the ready. His sharp eyes scanned the shadows, the tension in his posture mirroring Shiro’s. The silence was unnerving, the kind that suffocated rather than calmed.

“I’ve got your six,” Keith murmured into the comm, his voice a steady anchor in the disorienting quiet.

Shiro gave a slight nod, his jaw tightening. He took another step forward, his voice cutting through the stillness like a blade. “Matt! I know you’re here!”

The warehouse seemed to hold its breath, the air thick with anticipation. Then, a voice answered, smooth and mocking, slipping through the darkness like a predator’s purr.

“Finally got the idea, guess there really isn’t a crack in the earth where you won’t find me.”

Shiro turned toward the direction of the sound, though the thickening smoke made it impossible to pinpoint. His chest tightened, memories of Matt’s laughter, his touch, his voice—so familiar yet now so foreign—flooding his mind.

“I’m done, Matt,” Shiro called out, his voice steady but heavy with pain. “Done blaming myself for your mistakes. Done pretending you’re still the man I loved. You’re not. You killed him. I’m not going to let you stain my memories of him anymore.”

The silence that followed was excruciating, the weight of Shiro’s words settling like ash in the air. Then Matt’s voice came again, this time softer, laced with something almost wistful.

“Then stop me, cause no matter what I do, I just can’t seem to die.”

Shiro’s throat tightened, his grip on his gun trembling just slightly. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

From the shadows, Matt responded, his voice low and strangely sincere. “I’m sorry too.”

Keith’s voice crackled in Shiro’s ear, a grounding force amid the surreal exchange. “I’ve got a shot,” he said, his tone sharp with urgency.

Shiro nodded once, signaling the go-ahead. The sharp crack of the rifle echoed through the warehouse, and for a split second, Shiro thought it was over. But instead of a body hitting the ground, the sound of shattering glass rang out, the fragments scattering across the floor like frozen stars.

A mirror.

Smoke swirled upward, growing denser as a hidden machine activated, filling the space with a thick, disorienting haze. Matt’s laugh followed, sharp and unhinged, bouncing off the walls in an unsettling cacophony.

“Close, Keith,” Matt taunted, his voice rich with mockery. “But not close enough.”

Shiro’s pulse quickened, his eyes darting through the fog. The shadows shifted and rippled like a living thing, and suddenly Matt emerged, perched atop a stack of crates like some theatrical villain.

“Shiro,” Matt murured, his voice soft, almost pitying. “You shouldn’t have come.”

Shiro barely had time to process the words before movement erupted behind him. A masked figure lunged from the smoke, colliding with Keith and sending them both to the ground in a tangle of limbs. Keith cursed loudly, his rifle skidding across the floor as he grappled with the attacker.

Shiro’s attention snapped back to Matt, their eyes locking through the haze. Matt tilted his head, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. Then, with a deliberate grace, he hopped down from the crates, landing silently.

The first gunshot came fast, the muzzle flash lighting up the smoke. Shiro dove to the side, rolling as bullets peppered the floor where he’d just been. His gun slipped from his grasp, skidding out of reach as Matt advanced with cold precision.

Shiro moved with practiced agility, weaving through the debris-strewn space as he closed the distance between them. Matt was fast, darting farther into the warehouse, his movements light and agile. Shiro followed, every muscle coiled, until his foot snagged on a wire.

The explosion that followed was deafening. Flames erupted in a burst of heat and light, sending Shiro flying backward. He hit the ground hard, his body skidding across the cold floor as smoke and debris filled the air. His ears rang, his vision swimming, but he forced himself to rise.

Before he could recover, another trap activated. Matt fired at a second wire, triggering a cascade of jagged metal shards that rained down from above. Shiro dove to avoid the worst of it, the edge of his jacket catching on a jagged piece of rebar.

The explosion threw Matt off balance as well, sending him crashing into a pile of crates. He coughed, the impact knocking the air from his lungs, but he recovered quickly, his eyes blazing with a mix of fury and exhilaration.

Shiro seized the opportunity, charging at Matt. The two collided with brutal force, grappling in a chaotic tangle. Shiro’s hands locked around Matt’s wrists, trying to wrest the gun away, while Matt twisted and kicked, trying to break free.

They slammed against a support beam, the impact reverberating through the structure. For a moment, their labored breaths filled the air, mingling with the acrid smell of smoke and scorched metal.

Matt’s lips curled into a faint smile, his voice almost admiring. “Still strong, Takashi,” he murmured.

Shiro didn’t respond. With a surge of strength, he shoved Matt back, the force sending him stumbling. The pause didn’t last long. They charged at each other again, fists flying with brutal precision.

Matt’s knee connected with Shiro’s jaw, the sharp jolt sending stars across his vision. Shiro retaliated with a punch to Matt’s gut, the blow landing solidly. Matt struck again, sweeping Shiro’s legs out from under him. Shiro hit the ground hard, blood blooming from a cut on his lip.

From the corner, Keith wrestled free from his attacker. He grabbed his rifle, lining up another shot. The bullet grazed Matt’s arm, drawing a sharp hiss of pain as blood seeped into his sleeve.

The distraction was enough. Shiro tackled Matt to the ground, pinning him beneath him. One hand clamped around Matt’s throat while the other drew back, Matt’s gun in his hand ready to shoot.

“Go ahead,” Matt rasped, his voice breathless but steady. His body went still, his expression softening. “I’m glad it’s you. It had to be you.”

Shiro hesitated, his chest heaving. Matt’s words hung between them, heavy and raw. Matt’s gaze drifted away, unable to meet Shiro’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Shiro whispered, his voice cracking.

“I’m sorry too,” Matt replied, his lips curving into a faint, almost wistful smile.

The sharp hiss of a smoke bomb shattered the moment. Smoke filled the room again, thick and blinding. A figure emerged from the haze, striking Shiro and knocking him off Matt. Shiro hit the ground, dazed, as Matt was hauled to his feet and dragged into the smoke.

When the air began to clear, Matt was gone. Only Shiro and Keith remained, left to piece together the wreckage.

“Where is he?” Keith demanded, his voice hoarse.

Shiro stared at the spot where Matt had been, his fists clenching. 

“Gone.” 

Chapter Text

The briefing room was tense, the atmosphere weighted with unspoken disappointment as Shiro and Keith walked in. The others were already seated or standing, their attention snapping to the door. Sam sat at the head of the table, his expression grim and unreadable. Hunk and Lance sat across from each other, their usual easy camaraderie absent as they exchanged worried glances. Allura’s wheelchair was positioned near Sam, her hands folded in her lap, her piercing gaze fixed on Shiro. Coran stood quietly behind her, his usual warmth replaced by solemn focus.

Shiro placed his helmet on the table with a heavy thud, the sound echoing in the otherwise silent room. Keith followed, leaning against the wall near the door, his rifle slung over his shoulder.

Sam broke the silence first, his voice low and steady. “Tell me what happened.”

Shiro exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “We found Matt at the warehouse,” he began. “Or at least, we thought we did. The whole place was rigged—mirrors, smoke machines, explosives. It was a trap from the start.”

“Did you engage him?” Sam asked, his tone clipped.

“Yes,” Shiro answered. “We exchanged words. I tried to reason with him, but... he didn’t listen, not this time.”

Sam’s jaw tightened. “And then?”

“He had backup,” Keith interjected, pushing off the wall. “A masked figure. They ambushed me while I was lining up a shot. By the time I fought them off, Matt was gone.”

Allura’s lips thinned, her eyes narrowing as she looked between the two of them. “So, he escaped. Again.”

Shiro nodded, his expression taut with frustration. “Yes.”

The room erupted.

“How does he keep doing this?” Lance demanded, slamming a hand on the table. “We’ve been chasing him for months! How is he always ten steps ahead?”

“Maybe because he knows us,” Hunk mumbled, his voice heavy with unease. “He knows how we think. He’s using that against us.”

“Then we need to stop thinking like us,” Allura snapped, her tone sharp as a blade. “We can’t afford another failure. Do you realize what’s at stake here? What happens every time he slips through our fingers?”

Shiro met her gaze steadily, though there was a flicker of frustration in his voice when he spoke. “I’m aware, Allura. But this isn’t just Matt anymore. Whoever is helping him is skilled—tactically, strategically. They knew exactly how to disable Keith and disrupt our plan.”

Sam leaned forward, his hands clasped on the table. “Do you have any leads on who this ‘backup’ might be?”

“Not yet,” Shiro admitted. “But they’re good. They didn’t leave anything behind.”

“Except a bigger mess for us to clean up,” Allura muttered, her knuckles tightening on the arms of her wheelchair.

The door to the briefing room burst open, startling everyone as Pidge stumbled inside. Their tablet was clutched tightly in one hand, their hair a disheveled mess, and their glasses slightly askew on their nose. “Sorry I’m late!” they blurted, breathless. “I was running simulations on Matt’s burner phone, and I—” They cut themselves off, noticing the heavy tension in the room. Their gaze flicked to Shiro, whose disheveled appearance and grim expression told them everything they needed to know. “Oh,” they said softly. “It didn’t go well, did it?”

Shiro straightened, shaking his head slightly. “It’s fine, Pidge,” his voice calm despite the weight in his tone. “We’re just wrapping up.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed as he gave Shiro a pointed once-over. “You need to go get cleaned up,” he pointed out, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You look like you got blown up.”

Shiro muttered under his breath, his lips twitching into a dry, humorless smile. “That’s because I did get blown up.”

Hunk winced sympathetically from across the table. “Man, how are you even standing right now?”

Shiro sighed, his exhaustion evident in the slump of his shoulders. “Adrenaline,” he stated simply before turning toward the door. “I’ll be back.”

The room was quiet as the door clicked shut behind him. The weight of the night’s failure hung heavy in the air, but the silence didn’t last long.

Lance, seated at the far end of the table, leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed. He glanced at Keith, who was leaning against the wall near the door, his rifle still slung over his shoulder. “So, Keith,” Lance began, his tone casual but laced with challenge. “What’s it like being Shiro’s shadow? Always just one step behind?”

Keith’s gaze snapped to Lance, his eyes narrowing. “What’s it like sitting out every mission and running your mouth like you’re part of it?” he shot back, his tone sharp but not without a faint hint of amusement.

Lance grinned, his confidence undeterred. “Oh, come on. Someone has to stay back and make sure you get the information you need so you don’t screw things up too badly.”

Keith rolled his eyes but pushed off the wall, taking a step closer to the table. “You’re just jealous I’m the one Shiro trusts to have his back.”

Lance leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table and giving Keith a smug look. “Jealous? Of you?” He scoffed. “Please. I’m Shiro’s morale booster. You’re just his muscle.”

Keith crossed his arms, his lips twitching like he was fighting back a smile. “Yeah, because nothing boosts morale like your constant whining.”

“Hey!” Lance protested, pointing a finger at Keith. “It’s not whining. It’s strategy. Someone has to think about the bigger picture.”

Keith tilted his head, pretending to consider Lance’s words. “And that someone’s definitely not you,” he said, his tone dripping with mockery.

The others watched the exchange with varying degrees of amusement. Hunk leaned toward Pidge, whispering, “Here they go again.”

Pidge snorted softly, their tablet balanced on their lap. “How long do you think they’ll last this time?”

Allura, observing from her wheelchair near Sam, raised a brow but said nothing, though the corner of her mouth twitched faintly in amusement.

Keith and Lance, oblivious to their audience, continued their verbal sparring.

“Well, at least I don’t take everything so seriously,” Lance mocked, gesturing dramatically. “You’re like a walking storm cloud.”

Keith shrugged, his voice calm but pointed. “And you’re like a walking noise machine. Constant static.”

Lance leaned back in his chair, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. “Wow, Keith. Such poetry. Is that your way of admitting you can’t stop thinking about me?”

Keith blinked, caught off guard for half a second before recovering with a smirk. “Thinking about how to tune you out, maybe.”

The tension in the room lightened slightly as the two of them fell into a rhythm, their rivalry carrying just enough bite to keep it interesting but never truly mean-spirited. Beneath the teasing, an unspoken energy sparked between them—something neither fully understood nor acknowledged.

“Okay, okay,” Hunk finally said, holding up his hands. “Truce, you two. We get it. Keith’s the broody one, and Lance is the… loud one. Can we focus?”

Keith and Lance exchanged a glance, their expressions softening slightly. Lance grinned, his usual bravado returning. “Fine,” he relented, leaning back and propping his feet on the table. “For now.”

Keith rolled his eyes but didn’t argue, the faintest trace of a smile lingering on his lips as he turned his attention back to Sam, who was now drumming his fingers against the table, clearly waiting to continue the briefing.

“You two done?” Sam asked dryly, his brows raised.

“For now,” Keith and Lance muttered in unison, their voices overlapping in perfect sync.

The room fell into a brief, bemused silence before Allura let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. “This is why we need better teamwork,” she muttered, though there was a faint trace of amusement in her tone.

The meeting continued, but Keith and Lance couldn’t help sneaking occasional glances at each other—quick, fleeting looks that neither dared to hold for too long.

--

Shiro sat on the edge of the infirmary bed, his posture stiff, shoulders tense. The sterile scent of antiseptic and faint hum of medical equipment filled the small room. His jacket and shirt had been discarded, leaving his torso bare save for the bandages already wrapped around his healing shoulder. His skin was peppered with angry red abrasions, small patches of raw flesh standing out against the paler, unmarred skin.

The head medic, Larik, moved efficiently, his hands steady as he dabbed a cooling gel onto Shiro’s burns. “You’re lucky this wasn’t worse,” Larik scolded, his tone firm but not unkind. “That explosion could have taken half your face off if you’d been closer.”

Shiro grunted in response, the sting of the gel making him flinch slightly. “Just bad timing,” he muttered. “Not much I could’ve done.”

Larik raised a brow but said nothing, continuing to clean and disinfect the minor burns scattered across Shiro’s arms and torso. The silence in the room felt heavy, but Shiro didn’t mind. His thoughts were elsewhere—on the warehouse, on Matt, on the countless mistakes he couldn’t stop replaying in his mind.

When Larik reached for Shiro’s hands, Shiro instinctively pulled back, wincing as the motion tugged at his shoulder. “Easy,” Larik murmured, gently taking hold of Shiro’s wrist to inspect the road rash across his palms. “These will heal quickly if you don’t aggravate them.”

Shiro looked away, focusing on a spot on the far wall as Larik worked. The faint pull and sting of the cleaning solution didn’t bother him as much as the growing sense of frustration clawing at his chest. Every injury was a reminder—not of a victory hard-won, but of another failure. Another escape.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Larik said, breaking the silence. His tone wasn’t accusatory, more observational, as if he’d seen this kind of guilt a hundred times before.

Shiro exhaled sharply, his lips pressing into a thin line. “What else am I supposed to do?”

“Stop blaming yourself for things you can’t control,” Larik replied, dabbing a particularly nasty scrape on Shiro’s forearm. “That’s a start.”

Shiro gave a faint, humorless chuckle. “Easier said than done.”

Larik finished applying the ointment, then began wrapping Shiro’s hands with clean gauze. “It always is,” he stated.

The infirmary door slid open, and Keith stepped in, his expression carefully neutral but his sharp eyes taking in Shiro’s state in an instant. “How’s it looking?” he asked, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed.

“Burns are minor. Road rash will heal in a few days,” Larik answered without looking up. “But you need to keep him from diving into explosions for at least a week.”

Keith smirked faintly, but his tone was serious. “Noted.”

Shiro shot him a look. “I’m not planning to dive into any explosions. Again.”

“Good,” Larik answered, tying off the last of the bandages. He straightened, pulling off his gloves. “Because your body can only take so much punishment before it stops listening to you.”

Shiro grunted in acknowledgment, but his gaze drifted to Keith, who had stepped closer. “I’m fine,” Shiro muttered, preempting whatever concern Keith might voice.

Keith gave him a long look, his arms still crossed. “You don’t look fine.”

Shiro raised a brow, his lips twitching into a faint, dry smile. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Keith shrugged, his smirk returning briefly. “Just calling it like I see it.” He hesitated, his gaze flicking to the burns on Shiro’s side. “But seriously. Take it easy. No one’s expecting you to carry the whole mission on your back.”

Larik gathered his supplies and moved to leave, pausing at the door. “He’s right, you know. You don’t get extra points for overworking yourself.”

Shiro didn’t respond, waiting until Larik left before turning his attention back to Keith. “I’m fine, Keith. Really.”

Keith uncrossed his arms, his expression softening. “Yeah, well… doesn’t hurt to have backup. Even if you think you don’t need it.”

For a moment, Shiro didn’t know how to respond. The sincerity in Keith’s voice caught him off guard, cutting through the layers of frustration and guilt he’d been holding onto since the warehouse. He nodded, his voice quieter this time. “Thanks.”

Keith gave him a small, lopsided smile, and for a brief moment, the tension eased. The silence between them felt less heavy, more like a quiet understanding.

“You done?” Keith asked, nodding toward the door.

Shiro flexed his freshly bandaged hands, testing the range of motion. “Yeah,” he nodded. “Let’s go.”

Keith moved to hold the door for him, and together, they stepped out of the infirmary, leaving the sterile quiet behind.

Chapter Text

Matt sat on the worn couch in the small living room, the faint sound of the kitchen faucet dripping breaking the stillness. The room was dim, illuminated only by the soft glow of a table lamp. His hands rested on his knees, his knuckles still raw from the fight at the warehouse. He stared straight ahead, his thoughts a chaotic mess of adrenaline, guilt, and confusion.

A movement at the edge of his vision snapped him out of his haze. The figure in the doorway hesitated, then stepped into the room. Slowly, they reached up and peeled off the black mask that had obscured their face.

Matt’s stomach dropped.

“Pidge?” His voice was barely more than a whisper, his mind struggling to reconcile what he was seeing.

Pidge’s green eyes were glassy with tears as they clutched the mask in trembling hands. Their lips parted, words spilling out in a rush as though they couldn’t hold them back. “Matt—I—I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t want to let you die.”

Matt paled, his body stiffening as the weight of their words hit him. “You were there?”

“I overheard Dad,” Pidge whispered, their voice shaking. “He told Shiro and Keith to take the shot if they had it. I couldn’t just stand there and let it happen!”

Matt leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his hands gripping his hair. “Pidge, do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“I saved you!” Pidge cried, the words breaking with emotion. Tears streamed down their face as they stepped closer. “When I cracked the code and found the location, I promised myself I’d only intervene if I had to. I—I thought I’d watch, wait, just in case.” They paused, their voice dropping to a whisper. “But Keith wouldn’t stop.”

Matt looked up at them, his chest tightening at the sight of their tear-streaked face. “And so, you attacked Keith? You helped me escape?”

“I didn’t plan it,” Pidge stammered. “But they weren’t just trying to catch you, Matt. They were trying to kill you.”

Matt’s breath caught, the memories of Keith’s rifle shot and Shiro’s crushing weight pressing him to the ground flashing through his mind. He stood abruptly, closing the distance between them. “Pidge, this—” He stopped, his voice faltering. His hands hovered near their shoulders before he gave in and pulled them into his chest.

Pidge didn’t resist. They collapsed against him, their arms wrapping tightly around his waist, their fingers clutching at his shirt as though letting go would shatter them. Matt’s fingers slid into their hair, combing through the short strands in a soothing rhythm.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Pidge’s quiet sobs filled the space, their tears dampening the fabric of Matt’s shirt.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” Pidge whispered, their voice muffled against his chest.

Matt exhaled slowly, his chin resting lightly atop their head. “Right now, you can help me take care of this mess,” he said gently, motioning toward the singed and bloodied state of his arms and torso. “My traps worked a little too well. Blew up in my face. Literally.”

Pidge sniffled, pulling back just enough to look up at him. “Right,” they said, their voice shaky. “Let me get the first aid kit.”

Matt watched as they darted into the kitchen, their small frame barely visible in the dim light. His eyes drifted around the room, and a wave of bittersweet nostalgia hit him. He hadn’t expected Pidge to bring him here—to the house they shared with Sam. It hadn’t clicked where exactly they were until he saw Pidge’s face.

The familiarity of the space felt like a gut punch. The worn couch he used to lounge on during late-night study sessions. The faint smell of Pidge’s favorite tea still lingering in the air. He had thought those days were long behind him.

Pidge returned quickly, clutching the first aid kit in both hands. They set it on the coffee table and opened it, pulling out antiseptic wipes and bandages.

“Sit,” Pidge said, their tone firmer now, though their hands still trembled as they motioned for him to take a seat on the couch.

Matt obeyed, lowering himself onto the cushion as Pidge knelt in front of him. They took his arm carefully, inspecting the shallow cuts and burns scattered across his skin.

“This is gonna sting,” Pidge warned, though the concern in their voice was palpable.

Matt nodded, bracing himself as the antiseptic wipe touched his skin. The sting was sharp, but he barely flinched, his focus on Pidge’s face. Their brow furrowed in concentration, their lips pressed into a thin line.

“You’re too good at this,” Matt murmured, his voice tinged with a sad sort of amusement.

Pidge didn’t look up. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”

The silence stretched between them as Pidge worked, cleaning and bandaging each injury with meticulous care. When they finally finished, they sat back on their heels, their hands falling to their lap.

“I couldn’t lose you,” Pidge whispered. “I know what you’ve done. I know how far gone you think you are. But you’re still my brother, Matt. And I couldn’t—” Their voice cracked, and they shook their head.

Matt leaned forward, his hand reaching out to tilt Pidge’s chin up so their eyes met. “You shouldn’t have had to make that choice,” he murmured, his voice steady but soft. “But thank you.”

Pidge’s lips trembled, and they nodded, fresh tears spilling over as they threw their arms around him again.

Matt held them tightly, his chin resting against the crown of their head. For a long moment, they stayed like that, the quiet punctuated only by the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant ticking of a clock. Pidge’s tears soaked into his shirt, but Matt didn’t mind. He let them cling to him, their trembling body pressed against his chest as though they feared he might vanish if they let go.

“You’re shaking,” Matt murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. He ran his fingers through Pidge’s hair again, his touch slow and deliberate. “You didn’t have to do this for me.”

Pidge shook their head against his chest. “Yes, I did,” they mumbled, their voice muffled. “You don’t get it. I couldn’t just sit there knowing they’d—”

They broke off, their voice catching, and Matt felt their grip on his shirt tighten.

“I get it,” he said softly, his fingers pausing in their hair. He leaned back just enough to look at their face, though they kept their gaze fixed on the floor. “But this isn’t your mess to clean up, Pidge.”

Pidge sniffled, wiping at their eyes with the back of their sleeve. “It is if it means you survive,” they responded fiercely, finally meeting his gaze. “You’re still my brother. And you’re all I have left of her.”

Matt’s breath caught at the mention of their mother, the weight of her memory pressing down on his chest like a stone. He closed his eyes for a moment, exhaling slowly. “She wouldn’t want you to get dragged into this,” he murmured.

“She wouldn’t want you to be like this either,” Pidge shot back, their voice trembling but steady.

Matt opened his eyes, his expression softening as he took in the determination in Pidge’s tear-streaked face. “You’re stubborn,” he muttered, his lips twitching into the faintest semblance of a smile.

“I learned from the best,” Pidge replied, their tone bittersweet.

Matt sighed, his thumb brushing a stray tear from their cheek. “If you’re going to keep putting yourself in danger for me, at least promise you’ll be careful. I can’t lose you either.”

Pidge nodded, their lips pressing into a tight line. “I promise,” they assured, though their voice wavered.

Matt released them gently, leaning back against the couch with a weary sigh. He let his head tilt back, staring at the ceiling as his thoughts swirled. The house felt too quiet, too still, and the weight of everything Pidge had done to save him gnawed at the edges of his mind.

“You brought me here,” Matt mentioned after a long silence, his voice low. “Why?”

Pidge stood, brushing off their knees as they moved to clean up the first aid kit. “Because I knew you’d be safe,” they confessed, their back to him. “And because… I didn’t want you to be alone tonight.”

Matt watched them carefully, his brow furrowing. “Dad—he could come home any minute. You know that, right?”

Pidge paused, their hands stilling on the counter. “I’ll figure it out,” they said softly. “You just needed a place to crash and get cleaned up. I’ll deal with Dad if it comes to that.”

Matt stood, the exhaustion in his body evident in the slight stiffness of his movements. He crossed the room, his footsteps quiet against the floor. “You shouldn’t have to ‘deal’ with him because of me,” he responded, his tone gentle but firm.

Pidge turned to face him, their arms crossed tightly over their chest. “You’re my brother,” they stated. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Matt’s lips parted as though he wanted to argue, but he stopped himself. Instead, he reached out, placing a hand on their shoulder. “Thank you,” he breathed, the sincerity in his voice cutting through the tension.

Pidge’s expression softened, and they nodded, though their shoulders remained tense. “You should get some rest,” they said, their voice quieter now. “You look like hell.”

Matt chuckled faintly, the sound dry and humorless. “I feel like it too,” he admitted.

Pidge’s lips twitched into a fleeting smile before they turned back to the counter, tidying up the first aid kit with quick, efficient movements. Matt lingered in the doorway, his gaze fixed on their small frame.

“You should go lie down,” Pidge said after a moment, their voice softer but still carrying an edge of worry. They didn’t turn to look at him, focusing instead on snapping the first aid kit shut. “You need rest, and I have to get back to the office. Dad’s expecting me for a meeting soon.”

Matt hesitated, his arms crossing loosely over his chest. “Pidge—”

“Don’t argue,” they interrupted, glancing over their shoulder with a pointed look. “Please. Just... go rest, okay? You’ll feel better after.”

Matt sighed, a faint flicker of guilt crossing his face. “Fine,” he muttered, though his tone lacked conviction. He pushed off the doorway and headed down the hall toward Pidge’s room, his footsteps heavy against the hardwood.

“Good,” Pidge called after him, their tone softening. “I’ll check on you when I get back.”

Matt entered the room, the familiar clutter of Pidge’s workspace a comforting sight despite the weight in his chest. He eased onto the bed, leaning back against the headboard as he listened to the faint sounds of Pidge moving around the house.

After a few minutes, he heard the front door creak open, followed by the soft click of it closing. Silence settled over the house, broken only by the faint hum of the heater. Matt sat still, listening intently for any signs of movement.

When he was sure Pidge had left, he waited a few more minutes, his fingers drumming lightly against his knee. Then, with practiced ease, he swung his legs off the bed and moved to the window.

Sliding it open, Matt peered out into the cold night. The streetlights cast long shadows across the yard, their dim glow making the world feel eerily still. He hoisted himself out of the window, his movements quiet and deliberate, landing lightly on the grass below.

The chill bit into his skin, but he ignored it, his focus sharp as he scanned the area. No movement. No sounds.

Matt adjusted his jacket, pulling the hood up over his head as he stepped away from the house. He glanced back once, his jaw tightening as his gaze lingered on the familiar outline of the home he had shared with his family.

“I’m sorry, Pidge,” he murmured, his voice barely audible, carried away by the cool night air. “I won’t drag you down with me. You deserve better than this.”

With a final, lingering look, he turned away, his figure dissolving into the shadows as he slipped into the night.

Chapter Text

Shiro found Sam in his office, the older man hunched over a desk cluttered with files, a steaming mug of coffee resting precariously close to the edge. The lines on Sam’s face seemed deeper in the fluorescent light, etched with the weight of too many sleepless nights and impossible decisions.

Sam didn’t look up as Shiro entered, his focus glued to the document in front of him. “If you’re here to give me bad news, Shiro, I don’t think I can take it right now.”

“It’s not bad news,” Shiro said, his tone even. He stepped closer, his boots scuffing softly against the tiled floor. “But it’s something I think we need to talk about.”

Sam finally glanced up, his tired eyes narrowing slightly. “Go on.”

Shiro exhaled, pulling a chair closer to the desk and sitting down. “I think we need to ask Lotor Sincline to assist us in capturing Matt.”

Sam’s brow furrowed deeply, his expression shifting to a mix of confusion and skepticism. “Lotor? Why? I mean, he’s brilliant, but… why him specifically?”

Shiro leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “Because Lotor isn’t just a psychiatrist—he had one-on-one time with Matt, outside of a professional work setting, several times over the past few years.”

Sam’s frown deepened. “And you think that gives him an edge?”

“Yes,” Shiro said firmly. “Look, I know Allura’s a psychiatrist too, and she’s amazing at what she does. But her interactions with Matt were strictly clinical, confined to formal therapy sessions. Lotor, on the other hand… he got to see Matt in a different light. A personal one.”

Sam leaned back in his chair, his hands clasping over his stomach. “Maybe, but none of Matt’s previous psychiatrists ever raised any concerns about his mental stability. They all said the same thing: that he was remarkably sane, even after everything he went through as a kid. What makes you think Lotor would have a different take?”

Shiro hesitated for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “Sam… did Matt ever express an interest in theatre?”

The question caught Sam off guard. His brows shot up, and his mouth opened slightly before he snapped it shut. “Theatre?”

Shiro nodded, watching as the realization dawned on Sam’s face.

“Actually, yeah,” Sam murmured, his voice tinged with disbelief. “He did. When he was younger, he mentioned it a few times. Even took a couple of classes in high school. Why?”

“I think his interest in theatre was more than a hobby,” Shiro said. “It might have been a way for him to… reconfigure how he acted around people. A way to learn how to present himself, to adapt.”

Sam’s eyes widened as Shiro’s words began to click into place.

“Think about it,” Shiro continued. “Matt’s always been able to switch between serious and casual effortlessly. At crime scenes, in conversations—it’s like flipping a switch for him. Theatre would’ve taught him how to play different roles convincingly. If he was already inclined toward that kind of control, it could explain a lot about how he’s been able to stay one step ahead of us. He’s performing.”

Sam ran a hand down his face, his expression a mixture of exhaustion and understanding. “You’re saying… he’s acting out this entire thing? Playing roles to manipulate us?”

“Not entirely,” he paused. “But I think it’s part of his strategy. If we bring in Lotor, he might be able to give us insights into how Matt’s mind works, how he thinks. Not just as a psychiatrist, but as someone who knew him personally.”

Sam was quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the papers scattered across his desk. Finally, he sighed, leaning forward again. “It’s a long shot,” he admitted. “But you’re right. It’s worth trying. I’ll reach out to Lotor and see if he’s willing to help.”

“Thank you,” Shiro breathed, relief washing over him. He stood, his posture straightening. “I’ll keep working on the other leads in the meantime.”

Shiro hesitated, “There’s something else I need to bring up,” he said, his tone even but laced with significance. Sam’s gaze lifted from the cluttered papers on his desk, curiosity flickering in his eyes.

“A few months before Matt was arrested, he had dinner with Lotor,” Shiro began, his words deliberate. “When Matt got back, he said something about Lotor being... off. Suspicious. At the time, I didn’t think much of it. Why wouldn’t I believe him?”

Sam sat up straighter, his focus sharpening. “What kind of ‘suspicious’ are we talking about?”

Shiro exhaled, his brow furrowing. “He said Lotor felt rehearsed, like everything he said had been planned out in advance. Matt claimed he got the impression Lotor was hiding something—whether it was about himself or someone else, he couldn’t tell. He thought Lotor wasn’t entirely innocent, but he didn’t have any proof. I didn’t question it much, but looking back…” Shiro shook his head. “I think Matt was trying to steer us away from trusting Lotor. If Matt knew even then what he was planning, it would make sense to plant seeds of doubt about someone who might’ve been able to see through him.”

As Shiro turned to leave, Sam’s voice stopped him.

“Shiro,” he blurted, his tone softer now. “Do you really think Matt can come back from this?”

Shiro paused, his hand resting on the doorknob. He didn’t turn around, but his voice was steady when he answered. “I don’t know. But I have to try.”

With that, he stepped out of the office, leaving Sam alone with his thoughts and the daunting weight of what lay ahead.

--

The team gathered in the conference room, the tension in the air thick enough to cut through. Shiro sat at the head of the table, his posture stiff as he stared at the door. Beside him, Pidge fidgeted, their hands balled into fists on the table, while Allura sat quietly, her gaze focused but heavy with concern. Across from them, Keith leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Lance and Hunk, typically the first to inject levity into any situation, sat unusually subdued.

Sam entered first, his face lined with exhaustion. “Thank you all for being here,” he began, his voice calm but firm. “I’ve brought someone in who I believe can give us valuable insight into Matt’s behavior.”

Before anyone could respond, a tall, sharply dressed man stepped into the room behind him. His pale violet hair was tied back neatly, and his angular features exuded a poised confidence. He surveyed the team with sharp, calculating eyes before offering a polite nod.

“This is Lotor Sincline,” Sam continued. “He’s a psychiatrist specializing in criminal behavior, and he’s worked with Matt in the past. He’s here to help us understand him better—and, hopefully, figure out how to stop him.”

Shiro tensed as Lotor’s gaze landed on him. There was something unsettling about the way Lotor looked at him, as though he were peeling back layers to see what lay beneath. It wasn’t hostility—more like a clinical curiosity—but it was enough to put Shiro on edge. Pidge, sitting beside him, looked equally wary.

Sam gestured toward the table. “Lotor, please.”

Lotor moved to the empty seat at the table and sat with a grace that seemed practiced. His every movement was deliberate, controlled, as though he were perfectly aware of the impression he made. He folded his hands neatly in front of him and let his gaze sweep the room once more.

“Thank you for having me,” he said smoothly, his voice low and measured. “I know this is a challenging time for all of you, and I hope I can provide some clarity.”

Pidge spoke first, their tone sharp. “How well did you know Matt?”

Lotor’s lips curved into a small smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Well enough to see both the brilliance and the darkness within him,” he replied. “Matt is... complex. In many ways, a study in contradictions.”

“He said he spoke with you before his arrest,” Allura mentioned, her voice steady. “More than once.”

Lotor inclined his head. “That’s true. We interacted several times in both professional and social capacities.”

“And?” Pidge pressed, leaning forward.

Lotor exhaled softly, his gaze settling on Shiro. “Matt was a man of extraordinary talent and intellect. When I knew him, he was charming, kind, and disarmingly sweet. He had a gift for making people feel at ease. But that charm masked something far more intricate.”

“What do you mean?” Keith asked, his tone skeptical.

“Matt was a perfectionist,” Lotor continued, his voice calm. “He held himself—and those around him—to impossibly high standards. I saw it most clearly in his cooking. He treated it like an art form, every dish a masterpiece. If something didn’t meet his exacting standards, it was unacceptable.”

Hunk frowned. “So he was, what, picky?”

“Not picky,” Lotor corrected. “Obsessive. It extended beyond cooking. He was deeply affected by rudeness, for instance. A perceived slight could stick with him for days, even weeks. He despised people who he felt disrespected others and often spoke about their lack of worth.”

Lance raised an eyebrow. “That’s... intense.”

“It was,” Lotor agreed. “But that intensity was part of his charm. He was passionate, fiercely so, and that passion made him magnetic. He could draw people in effortlessly, make them feel seen, valued. But there was always a hint of something darker beneath the surface.”

Shiro’s jaw tightened. “You think he was hiding something.”

Lotor’s gaze flicked to him, sharp and knowing. “Don’t you?”

The question hung in the air, unanswered. Lotor didn’t press, instead continuing his explanation.

“Matt also had a possessive streak, when he cared about someone, it wasn’t just affection—it was ownership. Jealousy wasn’t a flaw to him; it was proof of devotion. He wanted to be the center of the world for the people he loved, and anything less was unacceptable.”

Allura’s expression darkened. “Do you think he was always like this? Or did something... trigger it?”

Lotor hesitated, his fingers tapping lightly against the table. “It’s difficult to say. Trauma shapes us all in ways we can’t always predict. What I can tell you is that Matt’s charm, his sweetness—it was real, but it was also calculated. He knew how to present himself to get what he wanted. Whether it was affection, respect, or control, he understood how to play the part.”

“Do you think he was manipulating you?” Pidge asked, their voice tight.

“Perhaps,” Lotor admitted. “But Matt’s brilliance wasn’t in blatant manipulation. It was in making you feel like there was no manipulation at all. Like you were the one in control.”

Shiro’s stomach twisted at the words. He thought back to the times Matt’s charm had disarmed him, the moments when Matt’s vulnerability had felt so genuine it was impossible to question. Hearing it framed this way felt like a confirmation he hadn’t wanted.

“What about his interactions with you?” Allura asked. “He said he found you... suspicious.”

Lotor’s expression didn’t waver. “I suspected as much. Matt had a way of deflecting attention from himself by casting doubt elsewhere. It’s possible he saw me as a threat, someone who could see through his carefully constructed facade.”

The room fell silent, Lotor’s words lingering heavily in the air. Shiro glanced at Pidge, whose expression was a mix of anger and something else—betrayal, perhaps. Allura sat back in her chair, her fingers pressed together in thought.

Shiro finally spoke, his voice low. “Do you think Matt can be stopped?”

Lotor tilted his head slightly, his gaze thoughtful. “I think he can be reached. But whether that will stop him... that depends on what he wants.”

“And if we can’t reach him?” Keith asked, his tone cold.

Lotor’s eyes met Shiro’s. “Then you’ll have to decide what you’re willing to do to stop him.”

Chapter Text

The wind clawed at Shiro’s face as he stepped out of his car, the faint crunch of snow under his boots muffled by the oppressive silence that hung over the scene. The barn loomed ahead, its dark outline barely visible against the night sky. From within, faint flickers of firelight danced through the warped wooden slats, casting eerie shadows across the frozen ground.

Shiro pulled his coat tighter around him as he approached, his breath forming clouds in the cold air. The sharp smell of smoke and something far more acrid reached him before he reached the barn doors, a sickly scent that made his stomach turn. Sam was waiting outside, his hands stuffed into his coat pockets, his face pale and drawn. He looked up as Shiro approached, his eyes haunted and tired.

“It’s one of his,” Sam muttered, like the words themselves carried a physical weight.

Shiro nodded grimly, his jaw tightening as he stepped past Sam and into the barn. The smell hit him like a wall—an overwhelming mix of burning chemicals, scorched flesh, and the metallic tang of blood. The interior was dimly lit, the low flames casting a sickly orange glow that stretched and twisted the shadows into grotesque shapes.

The scene was horrifying.

The body knelt in the center of the barn, frozen in a macabre tableau. It was positioned carefully, its hands resting delicately on its thighs as though in meditation. The head was tilted back, its lifeless face turned toward the rafters as if searching for something that wasn’t there. Metal rods skewered through its torso and limbs, holding it upright like an insect pinned for display.

Around the body, a crude system of funnels and pipes dripped lighter fluid in a slow, steady rhythm, feeding the smoldering fire that clung to its edges. The flames hissed and popped, licking at the body’s flesh.

Shiro’s stomach churned as he forced himself to move closer, the heat from the fire growing more intense with each step. A sudden surge of flames roared upward, lighting the barn in a violent blaze as nearby propane tanks ignited. Shiro instinctively stepped back, the searing heat stinging his face and hands.

The firelight illuminated the barn in stark detail, casting long, flickering shadows that seemed to breathe with the flames. The walls were smeared with soot and blood, creating a chaotic, visceral canvas. Shiro’s gaze fell to the dirt floor in front of the body, where a message had been scrawled in thick, dark letters.

‘I will destroy you in the most beautiful way, and you will burn with me.’

He clenched his fists, forcing his breathing to steady as he stared at the gruesome message. The flames continued to crackle around him, their heat oppressive, but his attention was fixed entirely on those words.

And then he saw it.

Off to the side, smaller and written in the same dark streaks, was another message: ‘ur smoking hot’ —with a jagged line scratched through it, as though it had been an afterthought, quickly abandoned.

A bitter laugh escaped Shiro’s lips before he could stop it, the absurdity of the phrase cutting through the oppressive tension. It wasn’t humor—just a reflex, an escape from the horror of the moment.

Behind him, the crunch of boots on snow signaled the arrival of the others. Keith entered first, his posture tense, his eyes narrowing as he took in the grotesque scene. His sharp intake of breath was swallowed by the crackling flames. Pidge followed close behind, their movements sharp and deliberate, hands clenched at their sides as if resisting the urge to strike something. Lance and Hunk trailed after them, their usual energy replaced with quiet unease as they stepped into the barn’s suffocating heat and the stench of charred flesh.

For a moment, no one spoke. The fire’s low roar filled the silence, punctuated only by the occasional hiss of lighter fluid dripping onto the flames. Shiro could feel their collective tension building like a storm about to break.

“What the hell is this?” Keith finally muttered, his voice low and edged with disgust. His gaze lingered on the kneeling figure, its head tilted skyward, metal rods holding it grotesquely in place.

“It’s like... some kind of ritual,” Hunk whispered, his voice wavering as he stared at the steady stream of flames licking the body’s frame. “Who does this?”

Pidge’s sharp eyes darted across the scene, absorbing every detail. Their attention landed on the words scrawled in blood on the ground, and their jaw tightened. “He’s making a statement,” they said coldly. “That much is obvious.”

Lance took a cautious step forward, his gaze shifting uneasily between the body and the flames. His expression hardened when he caught sight of the message written in smaller, almost flippant letters off to the side. “Oh, my god,” he muttered, his lips twitching upward despite the tension. “Are you seeing this? ‘Ur smoking hot?’ And then he crossed it out? What, was he workshopping his catchphrases?”

“Lance,” Keith warned, his tone sharp and cutting.

“What? You don’t think it’s ridiculous?” Lance countered, gesturing toward the scrawled-out words. “He’s this meticulous with everything else, but he nearly ruined it with that?”

Shiro’s gaze swept the barn, searching for something—anything—that might provide a clue. His attention was drawn to a small table tucked into the far corner of the room, positioned out of reach of the flames. It was almost unnoticeable amid the chaos, but its presence felt intentional.

The others hadn’t noticed it yet, their focus still on the body and the gruesome display surrounding it. Shiro moved toward the table, his steps slow and deliberate. His eyes locked onto the USB drive resting in the center, its polished surface reflecting the faint glow of the firelight.

A folded note lay beneath it, the words “For Shiro’s eyes only” scrawled across the surface in a messy, hurried hand.

Shiro’s breath hitched as he stared at the items, his chest tightening with a mix of dread and determination.

His pulse quickened as he realized no one else had noticed it yet.

Careful to mask his movements, Shiro edged closer to the table. The others were distracted, their voices rising and falling as they debated the killer’s motives. Keith was pacing near the body, muttering about patterns, while Pidge crouched to examine the bloodstained dirt. Lance and Hunk lingered by the barn’s entrance, their hushed conversation punctuated by nervous glances toward the flames.

Shiro moved swiftly, his hand darting out to slip the USB and the note into his coat pocket. The motion was quick, practiced, and seamless, and when he straightened, he glanced back to ensure no one had seen him. Satisfied, he took a step away from the table, his heart pounding as he rejoined the others.

Shiro lingered at the edge of the group, his fingers brushing against the note in his pocket. The weight of it felt heavier than it should have, like it carried more than just words or data. He couldn’t read it now—not with everyone watching—but he could feel its presence, a silent reminder of the killer’s reach.

The flames surged again, casting long, flickering shadows across the barn. Shiro’s gaze drifted to the kneeling figure at the center of it all, the message scrawled in blood burning into his mind.

I will destroy you in the most beautiful way, and you will burn with me.

--

The first thing Shiro noticed when he stepped into his house was the absence of a flower on the kitchen counter. He paused just inside the door, his hand still gripping the handle, scanning the familiar space. The counters were empty except for the usual appliances, their surfaces gleaming faintly under the soft overhead light. The kitchen smelled faintly of coffee and something metallic—leftover traces of the morning. It was quiet, save for the low hum of the refrigerator. Shiro’s shoulders eased, just a fraction.

No flower.

That absence didn’t mean much. Matt was meticulous, but he wasn’t predictable. His games were layered, built to unsettle Shiro at every turn. Still, Shiro allowed himself a small exhale, a fragile moment of relief. Tonight, at least, it seemed Matt had chosen not to remind him that he was always watching.

Shiro closed the door and locked it, sliding the bolt into place with a soft click . He slipped off his boots, setting them neatly by the entrance, and shrugged out of his coat, draping it over the back of a kitchen chair. The kitchen counter caught his eye again, and he stood there a moment longer, staring at the empty space as if expecting something to materialize.

When nothing did, he finally turned toward the living room. His laptop sat waiting on the coffee table, its matte black surface reflecting the faint glow of the streetlight streaming through the blinds. Beside it, the USB drive and folded note he’d pocketed at the barn sat in a carefully placed line. Shiro hesitated before walking over to the couch. He sank onto the cushions, the familiar creak of the springs grounding him, and reached for the note first.

Unfolding it felt like a deliberate act, the soft rustle of the paper breaking the silence around him. Matt’s handwriting stared back at him, precise and sharp.

To make things a bit easier.

Next to the words was a small, overly exaggerated winky face, its crooked smile and tilted eye almost taunting in their simplicity. Shiro stared at the sketch for a moment, his jaw tightening as a wave of irritation flared in his chest. That damn wink—it was such a small, insignificant detail, yet it felt like a direct jab. A reminder that no matter how horrific the scene in the barn had been, for Matt, it was all just another step in the game.

He folded the note carefully and set it aside, rubbing the bridge of his nose before picking up the USB. It was small and nondescript, its smooth surface catching the faint light as he turned it over in his fingers. Shiro exhaled slowly, his hand tightening around the device as the familiar tension began to coil in his chest. It was the same feeling he got before stepping into a crime scene or conducting an interrogation—a sharp, thrumming edge of dread and anticipation.

Finally, he leaned forward, plugging the USB into his laptop. The soft chime of the connection broke the silence, and a single video file appeared on the screen. There was no title, no hint as to what it might contain. Just the blank, unassuming icon sitting there, waiting.

Shiro’s fingers hovered over the touchpad. For a brief moment, he considered closing the laptop and leaving it for another day. But the thought was fleeting. He clicked on the file.

The video began abruptly. The camera jostled as Matt adjusted it, the frame shaking slightly before settling. The barn came into view—the same barn Shiro had left only hours ago. The same slanted walls, the same cold dirt floor. Except in the video, the flames hadn’t yet consumed the body. Instead, the victim lay slumped at the base of a ladder, their lifeless form partially obscured by shadow.

Matt stepped into view, he wore a black turtleneck and dark jeans, the simplicity of his outfit contrasting sharply with the elaborate horror he was about to create. His hair was tied back, though strands escaped to frame his face.

He moved with a practiced efficiency, dragging the lifeless body across the barn floor with an unsettling ease. Shiro's chest tightened as he watched. The victim's limbs flopped limply, and Matt handled them with the detached precision of someone arranging furniture rather than a person.

A song began playing faintly in the background, the upbeat tune utterly at odds with the macabre scene unfolding. Shiro recognized it immediately, his stomach turning as Matt’s voice joined in, soft and melodic.

"Cop Cuties, cute and on duty, 

Navy Blue booties, go ahead and lock me up,

Arrest me, but make it sexy.."

Matt’s voice was light, almost playful, as he hummed along. He tilted the victim’s head back, adjusting the angle with a sculptor’s care. His brow furrowed slightly as he worked, and his tongue peeked out in concentration. Shiro’s fists clenched at his sides, his breath shallow as he fought the wave of conflicting emotions crashing over him.

On-screen, Matt climbed a rickety ladder, securing the pipes that would later drip lighter fluid onto the corpse. The ladder wobbled precariously, and Matt yelped, nearly losing his balance. Shiro tensed, his heart leaping involuntarily as Matt caught himself, gripping one of the rods for stability.

Matt laughed, bright and unbothered, wiping his hands on his jeans as he muttered to himself. “Note to self: invest in better equipment. Or at least a ladder that doesn’t hate me.”

Shiro’s jaw tightened as he watched. Matt’s casual demeanor, his ability to treat this horrifying act as though it were nothing more than a household chore, made Shiro’s stomach churn. But beneath the revulsion, a small, shameful part of him felt something else—a pang of familiarity, even affection. The way Matt laughed, the way he muttered under his breath, the way he moved with that same effortless grace Shiro had always admired—it was maddening.

The video continued, Matt working meticulously to set the scene. He adjusted the victim’s limbs, pausing occasionally to step back and assess his work. His movements were deliberate, his expression calm but focused. It was as if he were painting a picture or composing a symphony, each element carefully orchestrated to achieve his twisted vision.

At one point, Matt tripped over a loose piece of wood, nearly falling. He caught himself with a startled laugh, shaking his head.

Shiro’s stomach twisted as he watched. Even now—even as Matt desecrated a human life, arranging it like a macabre piece of art—Shiro couldn’t ignore the little things. The way Matt stuck his tongue out when he was focused. The way he hummed along to the music, his voice soft and melodic. The way he bounced slightly on his toes, swaying to the beat as he worked.

Shiro hated it. He hated that he still noticed these things. Hated that even now, after everything, he couldn’t stop loving Matt.

The video neared its conclusion. Matt stepped back from the body, his head tilted as he examined his work. He adjusted one of the metal rods, then nodded to himself, satisfied. He turned to the camera, his face illuminated by the dim light in the barn.

“See you soon, Shiro,” he said, his voice soft but laden with meaning. His lips curved into a faint smile—a smile that felt both familiar and alien, a reminder of who Matt had been and who he had become.

Then the screen went black.

Shiro sat back against the couch, his hands trembling slightly as he closed the laptop. The room was silent except for the sound of his uneven breathing. His chest heaved as he stared at the dark screen, the weight of everything pressing down on him.

He hated Matt. Hated him for what he had done, for what he continued to do. Hated him for turning their love into a weapon. But in the darkest, most shameful corner of his mind, Shiro couldn’t deny the faint thrill he felt at being the center of Matt’s obsession. It was twisted and wrong, but it was there—a flicker of satisfaction that refused to be extinguished.

Shiro ran a hand through his hair, his fingers trembling. He couldn’t stop thinking about the way Matt’s voice had sounded, the way he’d moved, the way he’d smiled. He couldn’t stop thinking about the way Matt had always been able to pull him into his orbit, even now, even like this.

Chapter Text

The room was steeped in stillness, the kind of silence that creeps in after midnight, muffled by heavy walls and drawn curtains. Shiro lay sprawled on his bed, his body exhausted from days—weeks—of tension, hunting a shadow that always seemed one step ahead. His breaths were slow and steady, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with the faint hum of the heater. His room felt too quiet, too still, but his body didn’t care; it was finally giving in to sleep.

The sensation was subtle at first, slipping into the edges of his awareness like a half-formed thought. A faint tug at his wrists, something rough brushing against his skin. His mind, sluggish and tangled in dreams, didn’t immediately register it as real. It wasn’t until the pressure tightened, the rough material pulling snug around his wrists, that the first warning bell went off in his subconscious.

Shiro shifted slightly, a low murmur escaping his lips as his brow furrowed. The strange weight at his arms didn’t dissipate—it grew, the sensation dragging him further from sleep. A shiver coursed through his body as the blanket was pulled away in one swift motion, leaving him exposed to the chilly air. His T-shirt and boxers did little to protect him from the cold, and he instinctively curled in on himself, his lips parting in a groggy exhale.

The mattress dipped, a shift in weight pressing against his legs, pinning them in place. Shiro’s mind clawed toward wakefulness, confusion muddling his thoughts as his breathing quickened. His eyelids fluttered, and for a moment, he stared blankly at the ceiling, the faint glow of the streetlight casting uneven patterns through the blinds.

It wasn’t until he tried to move his arms that the realization hit him.

His wrists didn’t move.

The coarse texture against his skin grew sharper as he pulled, the rough rope digging into his flesh. His muscles tensed, his body lurching forward as he tried to free himself, but the bindings didn’t budge. Panic flared in his chest, and his gaze darted downward, toward the weight pinning his legs. His vision, still blurred by sleep, took a moment to adjust.

The figure perched over him was all too familiar.

“Matt?”

The name slipped out in a muffled gasp, and Shiro’s eyes widened as he realized he couldn’t hear his own voice clearly. Something was tied around his mouth, a makeshift gag that muffled his words and forced his breathing through his nose. He jerked his head, testing the fabric’s hold, but it stayed firmly in place.

Matt chuckled softly, the sound low and rich, tinged with amusement. His weight shifted slightly as he adjusted his position, keeping Shiro’s legs firmly pinned. The dim light caught the edge of his grin, his expression half-shadowed but unmistakable.

“Told you I’d be seeing you soon,” Matt murmured, his tone almost playful.

The words sent a chill down Shiro’s spine, his chest tightening as adrenaline surged through his veins. His gaze darted between Matt’s face and his bound hands, his mind racing to piece together how this was happening. How Matt had gotten in. How he had gotten past Shiro’s locks, his security measures, his instincts.

Shiro’s mind barely had time to register the situation before his instincts took over, raw adrenaline surging through his veins. His body erupted into motion, thrashing violently beneath Matt in an attempt to break free. His arms strained against the bindings, the coarse rope biting into his wrists with every pull. His shoulders burned as he twisted, seeking any angle that might offer leverage.

His legs came alive next, his heels slamming against the mattress with enough force to shake the frame. Each movement was erratic, driven by desperation rather than strategy. Despite his disorientation, Shiro’s strength and size made every struggle a challenge for Matt.

Matt shifted atop him, his weight redistributed to counter Shiro’s relentless movements. His balance wavered for a moment, his knees pressing harder into Shiro’s thighs as he worked to regain control. The grin on his face faltered, replaced by a brief flicker of irritation as Shiro bucked beneath him.

“You’re making this harder than it needs to be, Takashi,” Matt muttered, his voice steady but edged with exertion.

Shiro’s glare was fiery and unyielding, his breathing ragged as he twisted his body violently to one side. The motion nearly unseated Matt, forcing him to plant a hand on the mattress for stability. Shiro took advantage of the moment, his knee snapping upward with brutal precision, aimed directly at Matt’s chest.

The movement was swift and desperate, powered by raw determination. But Matt was prepared.

He caught Shiro’s knee with both hands, his fingers locking tightly around the muscle just above the joint. The impact jolted through both of them, but Matt gritted his teeth, using his momentum to shove Shiro’s leg back down. The motion left Shiro momentarily exposed, his balance disrupted by his own momentum.

“Nice try,” Matt hissed, his voice low and breathless. He leaned forward, pressing his weight harder against Shiro’s legs to keep them pinned. “But you’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

Shiro snarled through the gag, his chest heaving as he pushed against the restraints with renewed vigor. His arms strained harder, the ropes creaking under the pressure. Matt’s gaze flicked to Shiro’s wrists, watching the cords tighten with each tug.

“Still so stubborn,” Matt purred, his tone slipping into something almost fond. A crooked smile curved his lips, though his movements remained calculated. “I’ve always loved that about you. But we both know how this ends, don’t we?”

Shiro didn’t stop. His legs tensed beneath Matt’s weight, the muscles in his thighs coiling as he prepared for another attempt to dislodge him. 

Before Shiro could throw another kick, Matt redirected his energy, twisting just enough to unbalance him. The shift left Shiro flat against the bed, his momentum dissipating in an instant.

“You’ll tire out eventually,” Matt smiled, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “But I could do this all night.”

Shiro’s breath hitched, his mind racing as he realized how precarious his position had become. Every instinct screamed at him to fight harder, but the calculated way Matt moved kept him just off balance, just restrained enough to stay under control. The ropes at his wrists burned with every failed attempt to pull free, a cruel reminder of the trap he was caught in.

Shiro’s body stilled, his breaths ragged and uneven as he glared up at Matt. His chest rose and fell like a bull preparing to charge, every inhale sharp, his nostrils flaring as he fought to steady himself. His chest heaved, the fabric of his T-shirt clinging to his skin as cold sweat began to bead along his hairline.

Matt tilted his head, his gaze flicking to Shiro’s face. “That’s better,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Though I have to admit, I was enjoying the fight.”

Shiro’s fists clenched against the bindings, the rough rope digging into his skin. His jaw tightened, his glare burning into Matt as if sheer force of will could make him stop. The muscles in his arms and legs coiled, ready to spring at the first opportunity. But for now, he forced himself to remain still.

Then, he saw it.

The blade appeared in Matt’s hand as if conjured from thin air, the polished metal catching the faint light. Shiro’s pulse quickened, his gaze locking onto the knife. The sight of it sent a fresh wave of adrenaline through his veins, his heartbeat thundering in his ears.

Matt leaned forward, the knife in his hand glinting as he turned it lazily between his fingers. The motion was slow, deliberate, almost teasing. He tilted it slightly, letting the edge catch the light before bringing it down to hover just above Shiro’s collarbone.

Shiro’s breath hitched, the cold metal pressing lightly against his skin. The sharp contrast between the knife’s chill and his own warmth sent a shiver coursing through his body. Matt dragged the blade downward, the tip grazing his sternum with just enough pressure to make Shiro’s muscles tense.

The sound of tearing fabric broke the silence as Matt sliced through the front of Shiro’s T-shirt. The thin material gave way easily, the edges falling open to reveal the taut lines of Shiro’s chest. Matt’s gaze lingered, his expression unreadable as he took in the sight before him.

Shiro’s breathing grew heavier, his chest rising and falling with each ragged inhale. The knife returned to his collarbone, the point tracing slow, deliberate lines along his skin. It didn’t break the surface, but the threat was unmistakable.

It trailed down Shiro’s torso with agonizing slowness, it's cold edge leaving a wake of goosebumps that made his skin crawl and tingle in equal measure. Matt’s free hand moved in tandem, his fingers ghosting over the ridges of Shiro’s muscles. The touch was featherlight, almost reverent, and yet it set Shiro’s nerves ablaze in a way he didn’t want to acknowledge.

Shiro’s jaw clenched, his breath coming in sharp, ragged pulls through his nose. He willed himself to focus—on the knife, on Matt’s position, on any opportunity to break free. But his thoughts betrayed him, slipping into the sensations coursing through his body. A sickening knot formed in his stomach as he realized just how much his body responded, his skin flushing, his pulse quickening under Matt’s touch.

How screwed up am I?  

The thought hit him like a slap. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to will the tension from his body, trying to convince himself this was fear or adrenaline or anything but what it truly was.

But he couldn’t lie to himself. Not when every brush of Matt’s hand left heat in its wake. Not when the press of cold steel made his breath hitch in a way that wasn’t entirely dread.

Matt was perceptive—too perceptive. He paused, the knife hovering just above Shiro’s navel, and tilted his head as though considering something. His lips quirked upward in a slow, knowing grin, his eyes glittering with satisfaction.

“Oh, you like this,” Matt murmured, his voice a low purr. It wasn’t a question. He leaned closer, his breath warm against Shiro’s skin. “You can fight it all you want, Takashi, but your body tells the truth.”

Shiro’s glare was sharp enough to cut steel, but the effect was undermined by the flush creeping up his neck. He wanted to deny it, to lash out, to do anything to take back the control Matt had stolen. But the gag in his mouth silenced him, leaving him with nothing but the rapid rise and fall of his chest and the heated betrayal of his body.

Matt chuckled, a rich, velvety sound that made Shiro’s stomach twist. He dragged the blade back up, tracing Shiro’s sternum in a line that was too gentle to break the skin but far too intimate to ignore. “So tense,” Matt mused, his tone teasing. “But you’re not struggling anymore. Guess you figured out how much worse that would make things.”

Shiro’s fists clenched against the bindings, the ropes creaking under the strain. He focused on the sting of the fibers biting into his skin, grounding himself in the discomfort instead of the warm trail Matt’s lips left as they followed the path of the blade.

Matt pressed a kiss to the center of Shiro’s chest, lingering there for a moment before pulling back just enough to smirk up at him. “You’re a fascinating contradiction, Shiro,” he breathed, the knife tilting to catch the faint light. “So controlled, so disciplined—and yet, here you are, falling apart for me. I have to admit, it’s a little intoxicating.”

Matt’s smirk deepened as he drew the knife upward, the tip skimming lightly over Shiro’s skin, leaving a trail of cool fire in its wake. It stopped just beneath Shiro’s chin, resting there with a deliberate, teasing pressure. Matt tilted his head, his gaze steady as he used the blade to nudge Shiro’s head upward, forcing their eyes to meet.

“There he is,” Matt murmured, his voice soft but laced with something dangerous. The way his eyes raked over Shiro’s face sent a shiver down Shiro’s spine, though he refused to break the gaze. “Still so beautiful. You really don’t even realize, do you?”

Shiro’s jaw clenched, his breath hissing through his nose as he glared at Matt. The fury burning in his eyes was undercut by the heat crawling up his neck, a flush he couldn’t suppress.

Matt’s expression softened for a fraction of a second, his smirk giving way to something quieter, more intimate. “You’re gorgeous, Takashi,” he purred, the words rolling off his tongue like a honey. “Even now, with all that rage and defiance in your eyes, you’re stunning.”

The knife under Shiro’s chin pressed upward ever so slightly, not enough to hurt but enough to remind him of its presence. Matt’s free hand came to rest on Shiro’s chest, his palm warm against the rapid thrum of Shiro’s heart.

Shiro growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against the blade. Matt only chuckled, leaning closer until his breath ghosted over Shiro’s lips.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Matt continued, his tone darkening with amusement. “I like you angry. That fire suits you.” His grin returned, sharp and wicked. “But I think I like you like this even more—right where I want you.”

Shiro’s fists clenched against the bindings as his pulse roared in his ears. Every fiber of his being wanted to lash out, to break free, to fight—but the blade under his chin and the hand on his chest rooted him in place. 

Matt leaned in, his lips brushing against Shiro’s ear as he whispered, “Miss me?”

Shiro’s breath hitched, his fury and shame warring with the magnetic pull of Matt’s voice. He wanted to scream, to tell Matt exactly what he thought of him, but the gag turned his words into nothing more than a muffled snarl.

Matt chuckled again, a sound full of dark amusement. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Matt leaned closer, his grin softening into something gentler, though no less unsettling. “But you’re wrong if you think I don’t see it. That hesitation. That flicker of something deeper. I wonder, Takashi, do you hate this as much as you pretend to?”

Shiro’s eyes narrowed, his heart pounding against his ribcage. He willed himself to focus, to think, to plan—but Matt’s presence made it nearly impossible. The knife left his chin, and he exhaled shakily, only to feel Matt’s warm hand replace it, cradling his jaw with a gentleness that felt like mockery.

“I think you’re more honest than you want to admit,” Matt murmured. His thumb brushed over the edge of Shiro’s jaw, his eyes scanning every detail of Shiro’s face. “It’s why you’ve always intrigued me. Why you’ve always drawn me in.”

He shifted slightly, keeping Shiro pinned as he moved lower. Shiro’s breathing hitched as Matt leaned in, his lips brushing faintly against the hollow of Shiro’s collarbone. The contrast between the soft warmth of Matt’s mouth and the lingering chill of the knife against his skin sent an involuntary shudder through him.

“Still so tense,” Matt murmured against Shiro’s skin, his lips ghosting along the curve of his sternum. “You really should relax, Takashi. I’m not here to hurt you. At least, not in the way you think.”

Shiro’s jaw clenched, his nostrils flaring as he fought to keep his breathing steady. Each touch—each kiss—was deliberate. He could feel the pressure building in his chest, a mix of anger and something far more unsettling that he refused to acknowledge. His fists tightened against the bindings, the rope biting into his skin as he struggled to maintain his composure.

Matt seemed to notice. He always noticed. His lips curled into a knowing smile against Shiro’s chest before he continued his slow descent. He pressed another kiss just above Shiro’s heart, lingering there as though savoring the moment. The heat of his breath, the deliberate drag of his lips, was enough to make Shiro’s pulse quicken against his will.

“You’re beautiful like this.” Matt murmured, his voice low and intimate. He placed another kiss just below Shiro’s ribs, his lips trailing a path down the hard lines of Shiro’s torso. 

Shiro growled against the gag, his frustration mounting as his body betrayed him. He hated the way Matt’s touch sent sparks skittering across his skin, the way his body responded despite his mind screaming for it to stop. The conflicting sensations churned in his chest, leaving him feeling unmoored, exposed.

Matt’s hands moved to either side of Shiro’s ribcage, his thumbs brushing against the muscle there as he leaned down again. His kisses became slower, more deliberate, as if he was savoring every inch of skin he touched. He paused just above Shiro’s navel, his breath warm against the cool air of the room.

Shiro’s breaths came faster now, each one shallow and uneven as he tried to ignore the heat pooling in his stomach. Matt tilted his head up slightly, his eyes locking onto Shiro’s with a smug grin.

“Don’t look so conflicted,” Matt said, his tone light and teasing. “You’re allowed to enjoy this, you know. Even if you hate yourself for it.”

Shiro’s glare intensified, but it only seemed to fuel Matt’s amusement. He leaned in again, pressing another kiss just below Shiro’s navel before dragging his lips back up, retracing the path he’d taken with an infuriating slowness.

“You’re not very good at hiding it,” Matt murmured, his lips brushing against Shiro’s chest once more. “Every breath, every little movement—you’re practically telling me everything I need to know.”

Shiro turned his head away, his jaw tightening as he bit back the overwhelming swirl of emotions threatening to consume him. Matt’s laughter was soft, almost gentle.

Matt started to kiss his way back down Shiro's body, his lips leaving a searing trail of heat. With a wicked grin, Matt kissed even lower, his tongue dipping teasingly into Shiro's navel before he reached the waistband of his boxers.

Shiro's breath hitched in his throat as he realized where Matt was heading. His cock was already straining against the fabric, a damp patch forming from his leaking arousal. He wanted to beg Matt to stop, wanted to demand that he let him go, but the words died in his throat as Matt hooked his fingers into the waistband and started to tug his boxers down.

Slowly, torturously, Matt peeled the fabric down Shiro's thighs, revealing more and more skin.

Matt tossed Shiro's boxers aside, leaving him completely exposed and vulnerable. Shiro's cock sprung free, slapping against his stomach, already leaking and flushed. Matt licked his lips hungrily at the sight, his own arousal straining against his jeans.

"Fuck, you're gorgeous," Matt growled, wrapping a hand around Shiro's shaft and giving it a firm squeeze. Shiro bucked his hips, a strangled moan escaping him through the gag. Matt chuckled darkly, stroking Shiro's cock with slow, deliberate pumps of his fist.

Leaning down, Matt dragged his tongue along the underside of Shiro's shaft, tracing the thick vein that ran along the length. Shiro shuddered, his fingers clenching around the ropes binding his wrists as jolts of pleasure shot through him. Matt took his time, teasing Shiro mercilessly, swirling his tongue around the tip and dipping into the slit to lap up the pre-cum leaking steadily from the head.

Just as Shiro was about to scream in frustration, desperate for more, Matt took pity on him. He wrapped his lips around the swollen head of Shiro's cock and sucked hard, his tongue flicking out to dance along the slit as he bobbed his head up and down. Shiro threw his head back, a guttural moan tearing from his throat, the sound muffled by the gag.

Matt took more of Shiro's length into his mouth, inch by inch disappearing between his stretched lips. His hand moved to touch Shiro's balls, rolling them in his palm and giving them a gentle squeeze. Shiro's hips bucked wildly, fucking into Matt's mouth, chasing his rapidly building pleasure.

Halfway through, Matt pulled back just enough to look up at Shiro with a wicked grin. "I think it's time for that gag to come off, don't you?" he purred, his voice rough with arousal. Without waiting for an answer, he reached up and tugged the gag from Shiro's mouth.

Shiro worked his jaw, relishing the feeling of finally being able to speak, to moan, to scream. But before he could utter a word, Matt took him deep, his nose pressing against the wiry hairs at the base of Shiro's cock. Shiro cried out, his voice ragged and desperate. His fingers scrabbled at the ropes binding his wrists, the rough hemp digging into his skin as he clutched at them, needing an anchor in the storm of sensation.

Matt pulled back slowly, his lips stretching taut around Shiro's shaft as he sucked hard, hollowing his cheeks. Shiro's cock was slick with saliva and pre-cum as it popped free from Matt's mouth, bobbing and twitching with need. Matt grinned up at him, his eyes glinting with wicked mischief and dark promise.

"Tell me how much you missed me, Shiro," Matt demanded, his voice a sinful purr. His hand pumping Shiro's cock with fast, tight strokes, squeezing the shaft from base to tip. "Tell me how much you've craved this."

Shiro was panting harshly, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. "I...I fucking missed you," he confessed, his voice strained with arousal. The rest of his words dissolved into a groan as Matt's thumb rubbed firmly over the leaking slit of his cock, smearing the pre-cum over the swollen head.

Matt smirked, pleased with Shiro's admission. He leaned in to lap at the pearly beads of fluid leaking from the tip, his tongue swirling around the sensitive flesh. "Good boy, now that you have me, what do you want, baby?" Matt murmured, his breath hot against Shiro's skin. "Tell me what you need."

Shiro's hips bucked up, chasing the heat of Matt's mouth.

Matt chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating around Shiro's cock as he took it back into his mouth. He sucked harder, his tongue swirling along the thick shaft, stroking every ridge and vein. At the same time, his hand reached down to squeeze the base of Shiro’s cock. Shiro keened, a strangled moan tearing from his throat. 

Matt took this as encouragement, doubling his efforts. His head bobbing faster, his tongue swirling around the head of Shiro's cock before he plunged back down, taking the entire length into his throat. Shiro's hips surged forward, fucking into the wet heat of Matt's mouth, chasing the pleasure that's fast approaching.

Shiro's muscles tense, his abs clenching as his orgasm built rapidly. 

Matt pulled off just as Shiro reached the edge, his hand flying over the weeping cock. "Do it," he purred, his voice rough and demanding. "Come for me, Shiro. I want to see you fall apart."

With a final, strangled cry, Shiro unravels. Thick, hot ropes of cum erupt from his cock, painting Matt's lips and chest. Matt stroked him through it, milking every last drop of his release until Shiro collapsed back against the bed, spent and panting.

Matt licks his lips, he grinned up at Shiro, looking incredibly satisfied with himself. "Mmm, you taste even better than I remembered," he purred, his voice low and rough. "I could get used to this."

Shiro can only groan in response, his body still trembling with the aftershocks.

Matt lingered for a moment, his gaze tracing the contours of Shiro's face. There was a flicker of something—regret, satisfaction, or something more complicated—dancing in his expression before he finally pushed himself off the bed. The mattress shifted slightly with his weight, and Shiro shuddered at the cool air that replaced Matt’s warmth.

Without a word, Matt walked to the nearby dresser, retrieving a towel. He moved with a calculated ease, his steps deliberate yet unhurried, as though he had all the time in the world. Shiro watched him through heavy-lidded eyes, his breaths slowing but still uneven as he processed the surreal intimacy of what had just happened.

Matt returned to the bedside and knelt, his movements quiet as he used the towel to gently wipe Shiro clean. His touch was clinical, almost detached, yet there was a strange tenderness in the way he worked, taking care to avoid lingering too long or pressing too hard. Shiro couldn’t meet his gaze, his body tense with a mix of exhaustion, anger, and something he couldn’t—or didn’t want to—name.

“There,” Matt murmured once he was done, his voice low and steady. He tossed the towel onto the chair in the corner of the room and straightened, brushing his hands off on his jeans. His gaze flicked back to Shiro, softening for a moment as he took in the sight of him—tied, disheveled, but unmistakably beautiful.

“Get some rest, Takashi,” Matt murmured, reaching for the blanket at the foot of the bed. He pulled it up over Shiro’s body, tucking it around him with a care that bordered on reverence. Shiro’s eyes narrowed as he followed Matt’s every move, his bound hands flexing above his head.

Matt’s lips quirked upward in a faint, almost wistful smile. “You’ll figure it out soon enough,” he said, his voice carrying an edge of amusement as he gestured toward the knife he’d placed on the pillow. Close enough for Shiro to reach, but only when his thoughts were clearer.

Before leaving, Matt reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bundle. He set it down carefully beside the knife: a delicate bleeding heart vine, its vibrant flowers stark against the white of the sheets. The symbolism wasn’t lost on Shiro, though he wasn’t sure whether to curse Matt’s audacity or be struck by the gesture.

Matt stepped back, his expression unreadable as he took one last look at Shiro. His voice softened, dropping almost to a whisper. “Sweet dreams.”

And with that, he turned and disappeared into the shadows, the soft click of the door closing behind him signaling his departure. The room fell into a deep silence, broken only by the faint hum of the heater and the steady rhythm of Shiro’s breathing.

For a long moment, Shiro didn’t move. His chest rose and fell, the blanket warm but feeling strangely oppressive. His wrists tugged experimentally against the ropes, and his gaze flicked toward the knife. It would take effort to free himself, but Matt had ensured it wasn’t impossible.

Shiro’s eyes drifted to the bleeding heart vine, its delicate blooms almost mocking in their beauty. He let out a slow, measured breath, his thoughts a tangled mess of emotions he didn’t have the energy to sort through.

Matt was gone, but his presence lingered, heavy in the air, etched into Shiro’s skin. Shiro closed his eyes, willing himself to focus, to breathe, to regain control of his racing mind.

Tomorrow, he would deal with this. Tomorrow, he would figure out what to do. But tonight, he would lie there, bound and weary, the ghost of Matt’s touch still lingering on his skin.

And he would dream—of what, he wasn’t sure.

Chapter Text

The morning light crept through the blinds, carving pale streaks across the walls of the dim bedroom. The soft hum of the heater filled the quiet space, punctuated only by the faint rustle of the curtains as the cool breeze slipped through the edges of the window. Shiro stirred, the dull ache in his arms pulling him from the depths of restless sleep.

His body was heavy, his wrists bound and stretched above his head, the rough texture of the rope digging into his skin. For a moment, confusion clouded his thoughts, his sluggish mind struggling to piece together where he was and why he felt so restrained. Then, the memories came flooding back, sharp and disorienting, like cold water poured over a fire.

He shifted against the bindings, the motion slow and awkward. His muscles protested, sore and stiff, and his shoulders burned with the strain. As he turned his head slightly, his eyes fell on the pillow beside him.

The knife rested there, glinting faintly in the morning light. Next to it lay the bleeding heart vine, its crimson flowers vivid and delicate against the stark white pillowcase. Shiro’s chest tightened at the sight, the stark reminder of Matt’s presence twisting something deep inside him.

With a grunt, Shiro rolled onto his side as best he could, his bound wrists making the motion awkward and jerky. His fingers flexed uselessly, straining for the knife that was just out of reach. Gritting his teeth, he shifted again, inching his body closer until his face was near the blade.

Biting down on the handle, Shiro clenched his jaw tightly, his breath steadying as he tried to keep the knife from slipping. The metal was cold against his lips, the taste sharp and metallic. Carefully, he maneuvered back onto his back, his arms raised as he twisted his body into position.

It took several frustrating attempts to angle the blade correctly. The strain in his shoulders grew worse as he worked, the muscles trembling from the awkward position. Finally, the sharp edge caught the rope, and Shiro began to saw, the blade moving back and forth in small, deliberate strokes.

Each motion sent jolts of pain through his wrists, the coarse fibers grinding against the raw skin as they began to give way. The rope creaked under the pressure, fraying strand by strand, until finally, with a soft snap, the bindings fell loose.

Shiro exhaled sharply, his arms dropping heavily to his sides. The relief was immediate but short-lived. He sat up slowly, his wrists resting on his knees as he inspected the damage. Angry red marks marred his skin, faint traces of blood where the rope had bitten too deeply. He rubbed at the tender areas, wincing as his fingertips brushed the worst of the chafing.

Rising from the bed, Shiro stretched cautiously, rolling his stiff shoulders and flexing his fingers. The tension in his body lingered, a mix of physical discomfort and something deeper—an unease that settled heavy in his chest.

He crossed the room to the dresser, his movements purposeful but slow. Pulling open a drawer, Shiro grabbed a clean shirt and tugged it over his head, the soft fabric catching slightly against his battered skin. He reached for a pair of pants, the simple act of dressing grounding him in the present.

But as he turned toward the door, his eyes were drawn back to the bed.

He didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to remember Matt’s presence, the words he’d said, or the way he’d left those two objects as a cruel reminder of his control. But the vine was there, a living, breathing symbol of everything Shiro wanted to forget but couldn’t.

His fingers curled into fists at his sides, the nails digging into his palms as his chest tightened with a mix of anger, shame, and something he couldn’t name.

With a sharp exhale, Shiro turned away, his jaw clenched tightly as he forced himself to focus on the task at hand. He needed to move, to clear his mind, to get out of the room that still felt saturated with Matt’s presence.

--

The briefing room was already alive with murmured conversation when Shiro stepped in, though his presence cut through the noise like a blade. Allura sat at the far end of the table, her wheelchair positioned beside Sam, who leaned forward with his hands clasped on the table, his usual air of authority shadowed by tension. Pidge was hunched over their tablet, their fingers moving rapidly as they scrolled through data. Across from them, Hunk and Lance exchanged low words, their postures uneasy, while Keith sat nearest the door, his arms crossed and his eyes sharp, tracking Shiro’s every move.

At the head of the table, Lotor sat poised and composed, his hair catching the light as his pale violet eyes followed Shiro’s weary shuffle. His expression was one of polite curiosity, his presence as commanding in stillness as it was in motion.

“Shiro,” Sam said, his voice cutting through the soft buzz. “You’re late.”

Shiro didn’t respond immediately. He slumped into the chair, exhaustion radiating from his every movement. His hair was unkempt, faint shadows lined his eyes, and his usually composed demeanor seemed frayed at the edges. He dropped his elbows onto the table and leaned forward, resting his face in his hands.

“Sorry,” he muttered, his voice muffled. “I was... a bit tied up.”

The comment hung in the air for a beat too long, everyone exchanging glances as the weight of the words settled. Keith straightened in his seat, his sharp gaze narrowing in on Shiro.

“Tied up?” Keith repeated, his voice cautious and edged with concern.

Shiro let his hands fall to the table, dragging a sigh from his chest. He didn’t meet anyone’s gaze, instead staring down at the polished surface. “Matt broke into my house last night.”

The room erupted.

“What?” Pidge’s voice was the loudest, sharp with alarm. Their hands gripped the edge of the table, their eyes wide and searching Shiro’s face for any sign of injury.

“Wait, what do you mean Matt broke in?” Hunk asked, his usual calm replaced with genuine distress.

“Are you okay?” Lance added, his usual teasing tone absent as he leaned forward, his brows furrowed.

Even Lotor, typically calm and calculating, looked slightly startled. “And by ‘tied up,’” he began, his gaze narrowing, “do you mean that literally?”

Shiro exhaled heavily, rubbing at his wrists as if to ward off the phantom sensation of the bindings. “Yes, literally,” he replied, his tone flat but quiet, as though he wanted to brush past the admission as quickly as possible.

Allura’s eyes narrowed, her voice cutting through the noise like a blade. “Shiro, why didn’t you call us? If Matt broke in—if he attacked you—you should have contacted us immediately.”

“I’m fine,” Shiro insisted, lifting a hand in a half-hearted gesture meant to placate them. He still didn’t look up. “It’s over. He didn’t hurt me.”

Pidge wasn’t convinced. “But he tied you up. Shiro, that’s not nothing! What did he want? How did he even get in?”

“He wanted to make a point,” Shiro replied, his tone carefully controlled. He looked up briefly, meeting Pidge’s gaze with an almost apologetic expression. “But he didn’t stay long. He’s playing games, and we need to figure out his next move.”

Keith leaned forward, his arms resting on the table as he studied Shiro intently. “You’re deflecting,” he stated bluntly. “What happened?”

Shiro met Keith’s eyes for a long moment, his jaw tightening as if debating how much to share. Then, he leaned back slightly, crossing his arms. “What happened is exactly what you’d expect,” he said, his voice steady but clipped. “Matt broke in. He tied me up. He left. That’s it.”

“Just like that?” Lance asked, skeptical.

“Just like that,” Shiro confirmed, his tone firm enough to close the door on further questioning.

Allura still didn’t look satisfied. “We’re running out of time. He’s not just leaving messages; he’s making this personal, making it so we cannot ignore him.”

“It’s already personal,” Shiro muttered. “But this gives us an opportunity. He’s left clues before, and this time is no different. We can use this.”

Lotor spoke up, his tone thoughtful. “Do you believe he left something deliberately? Breadcrumbs, as you said earlier?”

“Yes,” Shiro replied, seizing the shift in conversation. “He doesn’t do anything without a purpose. If we analyze everything he’s done so far, including this, we might be able to figure out his next step.”

Pidge hesitated, their sharp eyes flicking over Shiro’s face. “Okay,” they said finally, though their tone was laced with reluctance. “But there’s something else we need to talk about.”

Shiro frowned, his focus snapping to Pidge. “What is it?”

Pidge tapped their tablet, sending a series of names and photos to the projector. The list appeared on the screen, each name accompanied by a brief description and a timestamp.

“I’ve been looking for patterns,” Pidge said, their voice steady despite the weight of their words. “And I found one. Every single one of Matt’s victims—every one—has interacted with you, Shiro, in some way.”

The tension in the room shifted, sharpening like a blade.

“What do you mean, interacted?” Allura asked, her tone guarded.

Pidge gestured to the screen. “A college ex-girlfriend. A dude who argued with you in a coffee shop. Someone you spoke to briefly at a conference. A stranger who asked for your number once. The connections range from significant to incidental, but they’re all there.”

Shiro stared at the screen, his expression unreadable. “All of them?”

“All of them,” Pidge confirmed.

Keith sat back, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “He’s targeting people connected to Shiro. Why?”

“It’s personal,” Sam said grimly. “He’s sending a message. To you, Shiro.”

Shiro nodded slowly, his jaw tightening as the weight of the revelation settled over him. “Then we need to act quickly, if this is his pattern, we can predict his next move.”

Pidge hesitated, their fingers tapping against the edge of the table. “It’s not just about predicting his next move, Shiro. We need to understand why he’s doing this—what he’s trying to prove.”

“We already know why,” Shiro said, his tone clipped. “It’s about showing me that he can reach anyone, anytime.”

The room fell into silence again, the weight of Shiro’s words pressing down on them all. But despite the tension, the team’s focus began to sharpen, their shared determination a silent undercurrent.

Shiro leaned back in his chair, rubbing absently at his wrists. The faint sting of the chafing rope lingered, a reminder of how close Matt had gotten. But Shiro pushed the thought aside, his focus shifting to the task ahead.

Chapter Text

The black SUV rolled to a stop near the looming warehouse, its brick exterior worn by time and weather. Unlike the abandoned outskirts Matt typically favored, this warehouse stood defiantly amidst the city’s chaos, surrounded by bustling streets and the hum of life. It felt wrong, this break in his usual pattern, as if Matt had chosen the location to disorient them.

Shiro stepped out of the car, his boots crunching on the pavement as he scanned the area. Sam exited from the driver’s side, his movements deliberate, a hand resting on his holstered weapon. Keith followed, his sharp eyes already roving for any signs of movement, while Lotor trailed behind, his composure as unshaken as ever, a faint air of curiosity about him.

“Another warehouse,” Keith muttered, his voice low as he adjusted the strap of his knife sheath. “Does he have some kind of obsession, or does he just think we’re too dumb to notice the pattern?”

“Maybe both,” Shiro replied absently, his gaze lingering on the warehouse entrance. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as unease settled over him.

“This location is no accident,” Lotor said calmly, his pale violet eyes narrowing. “The change in venue suggests he wants to draw us in. There’s no isolation here. Witnesses, noise—it’s deliberate. He’s making a statement.”

Shiro didn’t reply. His focus shifted to the faint movement in his peripheral vision—a figure slipping into a side alley just beyond the warehouse. His pulse quickened as recognition struck.

Matt.

“Matt!” Shiro shouted, his voice sharp as he broke into a sprint.

The team reacted instantly.

Keith moved to follow, his boots slamming against the pavement. “I’ll flank him!” he called out, darting toward a side street.

Sam cursed under his breath, already veering toward another direction to cut Matt off. “We’ll box him in!”

Lotor paused, his expression unreadable, before disappearing silently down another alley.

Shiro plunged into the narrow alley, his breath coming in sharp bursts. The figure ahead moved with practiced agility, ducking and weaving through the labyrinthine paths. The dark hoodie obscured Matt’s face, but Shiro knew it was him—his posture, his gait, the way he glanced back with that fleeting, infuriating smirk.

“Stop running, Matt!” Shiro barked, his voice echoing off the walls.

Matt didn’t stop.

He darted through a narrow gap between two dumpsters, his movements quick and deliberate. Shiro followed, the metallic stench of garbage filling his nose as he pushed past the cramped space. He emerged into another alley, just in time to see Matt vault over a low chain-link fence.

Shiro’s muscles burned as he climbed the fence, his hands gripping the cold metal tightly. He hit the ground running, his boots skidding slightly on the damp pavement.

“Matt, you can’t keep running forever!” Shiro shouted, his voice carrying a mix of anger and desperation.

Matt’s response was a low laugh, faint but audible as it floated back to Shiro.

The chase continued through the twisting maze of alleys, the distance between them ebbing and flowing like a cruel game. Shiro’s heart pounded in his chest, each turn bringing him closer to Matt before he slipped just out of reach.

“Cut him off if you can!” Shiro yelled into his earpiece, his voice strained.

“We’re trying!” Keith’s voice crackled back, frustration evident. “He’s faster than he looks!”

Shiro rounded another corner, the alley opening into a small courtyard enclosed by towering brick walls. He skidded to a halt, his chest heaving as his eyes darted around. The shadows seemed to close in, the distant sounds of the city muffled by the oppressive silence.

Matt was gone.

“Damn it,” Shiro muttered under his breath, slamming a fist against the cold brick wall. His frustration burned hot, mingling with the bitter taste of failure.

“Shiro!” Keith’s voice rang out, drawing his attention.

Shiro turned to see Keith and Sam entering the courtyard, their expressions tense and expectant.

“Where’s Lotor?” Shiro asked, his voice clipped as he scanned the alley behind them.

Keith shook his head, his brows furrowed. “He hasn’t linked back up with us yet.”

Shiro frowned, unease prickling at the edges of his thoughts. “Did he get cut off?”

“Maybe,” Sam murmured, though his tone suggested doubt.

Shiro’s gaze returned to the empty courtyard, the shadows stretching longer as the minutes passed. He felt the weight of Matt’s escape settle over him like a lead blanket, the mocking laugh still ringing faintly in his ears.

“He’s gone,” Shiro muttered, his voice low and tight.

Keith stepped closer, his eyes sharp. “For now,” he stated. “But he won’t stay hidden forever.”

Shiro nodded, though the tension in his jaw didn’t ease. “Let’s regroup and figure out what’s keeping Lotor,” he said, his tone firm.

--

The alley was quiet, its shadows curling like restless serpents around Matt as he leaned against the cold, damp wall. The city’s hum was a distant thrum in his ears, muted and far away from this pocket of isolation. He exhaled slowly, his breath visible in the chill air, his mind racing despite the calm mask he wore.

It was always like this—his mind, a battleground of conflicting thoughts, as he weighed every angle, every possibility. The dance between control and chaos, between action and consequence. But tonight, there was a wildcard in his carefully constructed game: Lotor Sincline.

The sound of footsteps echoed softly, pulling Matt from his thoughts. He straightened slightly, his sharp eyes narrowing as a figure emerged from the shadows. Lotor’s silhouette was unmistakable—tall, poised, his white hair catching what little light managed to filter into the alley. He walked with an air of unhurried confidence, as though he had no fear of the man everyone else called a monster.

“You’re fast,” Lotor noted, his voice smooth, unruffled.

Matt’s lips curved into a faint smirk, though his thoughts churned beneath the surface. What game are you playing, Sincline? “And you’re bold,” Matt replied, his tone low but tinged with amusement. “Coming after me alone? That’s either very brave or very stupid.”

Lotor stopped a few feet away, his hands loose at his sides, his posture relaxed but deliberate. “Neither,” he shrugged. “It’s pragmatic.”

Matt tilted his head, his smirk widening slightly. “Pragmatic,” he echoed. “Big word for a guy walking into the lion’s den unarmed.”

“Who said I was unarmed?” Lotor countered smoothly, a faint smile playing at his lips.

Matt chuckled softly, though the sound lacked humor. “What do you want, Lotor? You’re not here to stop me—that much is obvious. So, what’s your angle?”

Lotor regarded him for a moment, his violet eyes gleaming faintly in the dim light. “I’m here because you’re useful,” he confessed, his voice calm, almost detached.

Matt blinked, the words catching him off guard. Useful? It wasn’t what he’d expected to hear. His smirk faltered for a split second before returning, sharper this time. “Useful,” he repeated. “Care to elaborate?”

“When people are scared,” Lotor began, stepping closer, “they look for someone to trust. Someone to protect them. Someone who can stand against monsters like you.”

The words stung more than they should have, though Matt didn’t show it. He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “And that someone is you, I take it?”

Lotor nodded slightly, his smile widening. “Exactly. The longer you evade capture, the longer people stay scared. And the longer they’re scared, the more they look to me for reassurance. To them, I’m stability, safety, the beacon in the storm.”

Matt studied him carefully, his smirk fading into something more subdued. His mind raced, dissecting every word, every nuance of Lotor’s tone and posture. “So,” Matt said slowly, “you’re saying my little escapades are... good for business?”

Lotor’s smile turned almost pitying. “Fear is a powerful currency, Matt. One you wield brilliantly. But you’re not the only one who knows how to profit from it.”

Matt’s jaw tightened, a flicker of something darker crossing his face. His thoughts spiraled, flashing through moments he hadn’t allowed himself to dwell on in years. The barn. The blood. The taste. The way fear had been forced upon him, carved into him, until it became something he could twist into power. And now, Lotor was standing here, calm and collected, telling him that his suffering—the chaos he wrought to make sense of it—was nothing more than a tool for someone else’s gain.

“You know,” Matt murmured, quieter now, more measured, “you’re not so different from me.”

Lotor arched a pale brow, his expression remaining placid. “And how do you figure that?”

Matt pushed off the wall, taking a deliberate step closer. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes gleamed with a dangerous intensity. “You remind me of your father.”

It was a low blow, though Lotor didn’t flinch. His smile faltered briefly before returning, a touch colder now. “Ah, my dear father,” he snorted, the sound tinged with dry amusement. “The Galran Gutter. What a legacy to live up to.”

Matt’s lips curled into a bitter smile. “He gutted people alive, didn’t he? Left their insides on display, like trophies. Never took anything, never had a motive—just killed them for fun. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

Lotor’s expression remained calm, though his eyes darkened slightly. “You think I’m like him?”

“I think you like to pretend you’re not,” Matt purred, his voice sharp. “But deep down, you enjoy this. The power. The control. The way people look at you, terrified but desperate for your approval.”

Lotor chuckled softly, the sound eerily light. “Maybe,” he admitted. “But unlike my father, I prefer to play the long game. Less... messy. More rewarding.”

Matt’s eyes narrowed, his thoughts racing. He’s not denying it. He’s leaning into it, like he knows exactly how to manipulate everyone around him.

“You like to think you’re better than him,” Matt breathed. “But you’re not. You’re just more polished.”

“Polished,” Lotor repeated, as though testing the word. He tilted his head slightly, his smile faint but unsettling. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy with unspoken truths.

“So,” Matt tried, voice regaining its edge, “why aren’t you trying to stop me? Why not call your little friends and hand me over? Why even have this conversation?”

Lotor’s smile softened, though his eyes remained calculating. “Because, Matt,” he stated simply, “I don’t need to stop you. You’ll stop yourself eventually. People like you always do.”

The words struck a nerve, though Matt refused to let it show. His smirk returned, sharper now, a shield against the flicker of doubt that threatened to surface. “We’ll see about that,” he said, his voice laced with defiance.

Without waiting for a response, he turned and disappeared into the shadows of the alley, his footsteps echoing softly as he put distance between himself and Lotor.

As he walked, his thoughts swirled in a chaotic storm. Lotor’s words lingered, digging into his mind like splinters. You’ll stop yourself eventually.

Maybe.

But not yet.

Behind him, Lotor stood motionless, watching the darkness swallow Matt’s figure. His expression remained unreadable, though his lips curved into a faint smile. “We’ll see indeed,” he murmured, before turning and walking back toward the city lights, his mind already plotting his next move.

--

The air outside the warehouse was cold and biting, the city’s distant hum a muffled backdrop against the tension that hung over the group. Shiro stood with his arms crossed, his breath visible in the chill as he stared at the darkened building before them. Keith leaned against a nearby lamppost, his eyes scanning the surrounding streets, while Sam tapped at his phone, likely sending updates back to the office.

The sound of measured footsteps pulled Shiro’s attention. He turned to see Lotor approaching from a side street, his white hair catching the dim light of a nearby streetlamp. His expression was calm, unhurried, though his eyes held a faint glint of something unreadable.

“Apologies,” Lotor said smoothly, brushing nonexistent dust from his coat as he came to a stop beside them. “I got a little lost.”

Shiro nodded, his gaze flicking over Lotor’s composed demeanor. “It happens,” he said simply, though something about the statement felt odd. Lotor wasn’t the type to get lost—his calculated nature made such slip-ups feel out of character.

Sam, however, seemed to accept the explanation without question. “No harm done,” he said, pocketing his phone. “We’re wrapping up here anyway. We’ll head back to the office and send someone to keep an eye on the building. Whatever Matt had planned, we’ll make sure we’re ready for it.”

Keith pushed off the lamppost, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly as they settled on Lotor. “You got lost,” he repeated, his tone neutral but edged with skepticism. “In a straight alley?”

Lotor turned to Keith, his faint smile never wavering. “The city is a maze, Keith,” he replied, his voice smooth and unbothered. “Even the most direct path can feel convoluted if you’re unfamiliar with the area.”

Keith’s expression didn’t shift, but his silence spoke volumes. Shiro caught the way Keith’s eyes lingered on Lotor for a moment too long, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“We did run into Matt,” Shiro interjected, steering the conversation back on track. His voice was steady, but his mind was still replaying the earlier chase, the way Matt had slipped through his grasp yet again. “At least we know we’re headed in the right direction.”

Keith nodded, though his gaze remained on Lotor for a beat longer before shifting back to Shiro. “Yeah,” he noted, voice thoughtful. “If nothing else, we know we’re close. Matt wouldn’t have shown up otherwise.”

Lotor inclined his head slightly. “Indeed,” he said. “A direct encounter is a significant event. It suggests we’re disrupting whatever plans he’s been carefully constructing.”

Shiro studied Lotor out of the corner of his eye. The man’s words were measured, deliberate, but there was something about the timing of his arrival that nagged at him. He pushed the thought aside—Lotor was here now, and that was what mattered.

“Sam’s right,” Shiro stated, addressing the group. “We’ll regroup at the office and come up with a plan. Whoever we assign to watch the warehouse will need to stay sharp—Matt won’t make it easy to figure out what he’s up to.”

Sam adjusted his coat, the weariness in his expression deepened by the cold. “Agreed,” he confirmed. “Let’s move before the trail gets colder than it already is.”

As the group turned to head back to their vehicles, Shiro fell into step beside Keith. The younger man’s posture was tense, his shoulders squared and his jaw set.

“You okay?” Shiro asked, keeping his voice low.

Keith glanced at him briefly, his expression guarded. “Yeah,” he said. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

Keith hesitated, his eyes flicking toward Lotor, who walked a few paces ahead with Sam. “Him,” he admitted. “Something feels… off.”

Shiro followed Keith’s gaze, his brow furrowing slightly. “You think he’s hiding something?”

“I don’t know,” Keith murmured. “Maybe. He’s just too calm. Like he already knows what Matt’s planning.”

Shiro didn’t respond immediately. His thoughts drifted back to Lotor’s excuse for being late, the polished way he’d delivered it, and the way Keith’s skepticism mirrored his own. “Let’s keep an eye on him,” Shiro suggested. “But for now, let’s focus on the warehouse.”

Keith nodded, though the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease.

As they reached the cars, Shiro glanced back at the warehouse, its shadowed facade looming like a silent threat. Matt was out there, somewhere, and Shiro couldn’t shake the feeling that every move they made was part of a larger game—one Matt was playing with them.

Lotor climbed into the backseat of Sam’s car, his expression as composed as ever. Shiro and Keith exchanged a final glance before sliding into their own vehicle, the weight of the night settling heavily over them.

The game was far from over, and Shiro couldn’t shake the feeling that they were still several steps behind.

Chapter Text

The moonlight filtering through the blinds painted fractured silver patterns across the bedroom walls. Shiro sat on the edge of his bed, his shoulders bowed under the oppressive weight of his own exhaustion. His hands rested loosely in his lap, fingers twitching occasionally as if remembering the rope burns that still lingered on his wrists. The faint hum of the heater filled the room with a monotonous drone, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the storm of thoughts raging in his mind.

Matt’s smirk haunted him—sharp, mocking, full of the cruel confidence that had kept him one step ahead at every turn. Shiro exhaled through his nose, willing the image to fade, but it clung stubbornly to the edges of his mind, like a shadow that refused to be banished.

The faintest sound broke the stillness—a soft creak, almost imperceptible, like the groan of an old floorboard shifting under weight. Shiro’s body tensed instantly, the hair on the back of his neck rising. His hand darted to the nightstand, fingers closing around the cool, familiar weight of his sidearm.

He rose silently, his movements measured and deliberate. The dim light painted the hallway before him in long, uneven streaks, the shadows stretching and pooling like restless phantoms. Every sense was heightened, his breath steady but shallow as he scanned the space ahead.

And then, there he was.

Matt stood casually in the doorway to the living room, his lean frame outlined faintly by the ambient light spilling in through the window. He leaned against the doorframe as if he belonged there, the faint smirk on his face twisting something deep in Shiro’s chest.

Shiro raised the gun instinctively, the motion smooth and precise, his sights trained squarely on Matt’s chest.

Matt’s smile widened slightly, his posture relaxed, one hand slipping into his pocket as if this were nothing more than a casual visit. He tilted his head, his eyes glinting with that same unnerving amusement.

And then, for a brief moment, the figure flickered.

Shiro’s breath hitched as Matt’s features dissolved into something far more sinister. The room seemed to darken, the shadows swallowing the faint light until only the figure in the doorway remained. It wasn’t Matt anymore—not entirely.

Empty sockets stared back at Shiro, hollow and unseeing, yet piercing through him with an intensity that froze him in place. The figure’s grin stretched unnaturally wide, splitting its face in a grotesque parody of joy. Its edges shimmered and warped, flickering like static on a broken screen.

Shiro’s grip on the gun tightened, his knuckles white. His mind screamed at him to fire, to move, to do anything—but his body refused to obey. The figure’s gaze bore into him, pinning him in place as a chill seeped into his bones, deeper than any winter’s night.

And then it was gone.

The shadows receded, the room brightened, and Matt was there again, leaning casually against the doorframe as though nothing had happened. His smirk remained, as maddeningly self-assured as ever.

Shiro’s breath came fast and shallow, his pulse thundering in his ears as he fought to steady himself. His finger hovered over the trigger, every muscle in his body coiled, ready to act.

Matt chuckled softly, his voice low and almost affectionate. “What’s the matter, Takashi? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“How did you get in here?”

Matt tilted his head slightly, his smirk widening. “You should really fix that back window latch,” he replied, his tone light. “Practically an open invitation.”

“Why are you here?” Shiro asked, his finger brushing the trigger. His voice was steady, but his mind raced with possibilities. Matt had slipped past their defenses once again. How many other vulnerabilities had he found?

Matt pushed off the doorway, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. “Relax,” he said, his hands raised slightly in mock surrender. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

Shiro’s eyes narrowed, his grip on the gun tightening. “You broke into my house. Again. Forgive me if I don’t find that reassuring.”

Matt shrugged, unbothered by the accusation. “I wanted to talk.”

Shiro barked a harsh laugh, though there was no humor in it. “Talk? About what? All the people you’ve killed? All the lives you’ve destroyed? Or maybe about how you’ve been playing me like a game of chess?”

“About us,” Matt replied evenly, his voice calm and measured.

The simplicity of the statement caught Shiro off guard. His brow furrowed, the words sticking in his mind like a splinter. “Us?” he echoed, his tone disbelieving. “There is no ‘us,’ Matt. Whatever connection we had—whatever you think this is—it’s gone. You killed it.”

Matt’s smirk faltered for the briefest moment, his expression flickering with something almost vulnerable. “That’s not true,” he murmured. “You know it’s not true.”

Shiro took a step closer, his gun still trained on Matt’s chest. “Don’t do this,” he warned. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

Matt sighed, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “I’m not here to make things harder, Shiro. I’m here because… because I can’t stay away. Neither can you. We’re stuck in this cycle, chasing each other in endless circles. You and me—two sides of the same coin, never able to coexist, never able to separate.”

“You’re delusional,” Shiro said, though the conviction in his voice wavered.

Matt’s lips curved into a faint, sad smile. “Maybe I am,” he admitted. “But that doesn’t make me wrong. You feel it too, don’t you? This pull between us, this inevitability. No matter how much you fight it, it’s there. It’s always been there.”

Shiro shook his head, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. “You’re insane,” he muttered.

Matt chuckled softly, though the sound was devoid of amusement. “Insane? Maybe. But I know you, Shiro. I know how your mind works, how your heart works. You think you can save me. You think you can pull me out of this darkness, fix me, make me whole again. But you can’t.”

“Why not?” Shiro demanded, his voice rising. “Why won’t you let me help you?”

“Because I don’t deserve it,” Matt stated, his tone unflinchingly honest. “Because I’ve done things—things you can’t even begin to understand. And because deep down, I don’t want to be saved. Not by you. Not by anyone.”

The rawness of the admission hit Shiro like a punch to the gut. He stared at Matt, his gun lowering slightly as the weight of the moment pressed down on him. “Then why are you here?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

Matt hesitated, his eyes flickering with something Shiro couldn’t quite place—regret, pain, desperation. “Because I want you to understand,” he answered. “I want you to see that this isn’t about hate or revenge. This is about freedom. For both of us.”

Shiro’s brows furrowed, confusion mingling with frustration. “Freedom? From what?”

Matt stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate. “From this,” he said, gesturing between them. “From the chase, the guilt, the endless cycle of trying to be something we’re not. You want to be the hero, Shiro. You want to save everyone. But you can’t save me. And I… I can’t keep running from you.”

The words lingered in the air, heavy and unspoken truths pressing down on both of them. Shiro’s grip on the gun faltered, his arm dropping to his side as he stared at Matt, searching for answers in his expression.

Matt’s smile returned, softer this time, almost wistful. “You won’t pull the trigger,” his voice was quiet but certain. “Not tonight. Maybe not ever. But one day… one day, you’ll have to make a choice. And I’ll be waiting.”

Before Shiro could respond, Matt turned and moved toward the window. He climbed out with practiced ease, disappearing into the shadows as quickly as he had appeared.

Shiro stood frozen, his mind racing, his heart pounding in his chest. The room felt impossibly empty, the silence deafening in the wake of Matt’s departure.

He didn’t know how long he stood there, staring at the open window, his thoughts spiraling in endless loops. All he knew was the ache in his chest and the terrifying truth Matt had left behind:

This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

--

The pale glow of dawn crept through the edges of Shiro’s curtains, casting faint slivers of light across his bedroom walls. The faint hum of the heater was the only sound, a steady backdrop to the stillness of the early morning. Shiro lay sprawled on his side, the weight of restless sleep pressing heavily on him. His body felt leaden, his mind caught in that peculiar liminal space between dreams and wakefulness.

Then, the sharp buzz of his phone rattling against the nightstand cut through the quiet like a blade. The vibration was insistent, dragging him from the haze of his half-sleep. He groaned softly, his eyelids fluttering open as he reached out blindly, his fingers brushing the edge of the phone before finally gripping it. The screen glowed dimly in the low light, and he squinted at the name displayed there.

Allura.

The sight of her name sent a jolt through him, pushing the last remnants of grogginess aside. His mind sharpened instantly, snapping to attention as worry crept into his chest. Allura didn’t call without reason, and her timing was unusual. He quickly swiped to answer, sitting up as he pressed the phone to his ear.

“Allura?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly, still rough from sleep.

There was a brief pause, and then her voice came through, steady but tinged with a hint of apology. “Shiro, I hate to bother you, but could you drive me to the office?”

Her words caught him off guard, and for a moment, he said nothing, his mind racing to catch up. “Coran had to leave early for a meeting,” she continued, a faint note of frustration slipping into her tone. “And I don’t want to inconvenience him by asking him to come back for me.”

Shiro swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet meeting the cool floor. He rubbed a hand over his face, willing his sluggish body to wake up. “Of course,” he murmured, his tone soft but resolute. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

There was a moment of silence on the other end before Allura exhaled, the relief in her voice unmistakable. “Thank you, Shiro, I’ll be ready when you get here.”

Shiro ended the call and sat there for a moment, the phone still clutched in his hand. His gaze drifted toward the window, where the light of the rising sun was beginning to seep through the blinds, soft and golden against the pale blue of the sky. He took a deep breath, pushing himself to his feet. Whatever the day had in store, it was already demanding his attention, and he wouldn’t let Allura down.

Moving with practiced efficiency, Shiro grabbed the clothes he’d left folded on the chair by his desk. As he dressed, his thoughts lingered on Allura’s tone—firm, yes, but carrying an undercurrent of strain he couldn’t ignore. Coran leaving early wasn’t unusual, but her choice to call him instead of arranging alternate transport hinted at something more. Whatever it was, Shiro would find out soon enough.

He ran a hand through his hair, trying to smooth it down as he grabbed his keys and headed out the door. The crisp morning air hit him as he stepped outside, the faint chill biting at his skin. He climbed into his car, the engine purring to life as he pulled out of the driveway.

--

An hour later, Shiro pulled up to Allura’s modest home, the morning sunlight draping the quiet neighborhood in a soft, golden hue. The scene looked peaceful, ordinary—a stark contrast to the unease twisting in his gut. He killed the engine and scanned the surroundings instinctively, his sharp eyes noting the stillness.

Then he saw it.

The front door was ajar, hanging slightly off its frame. Its crooked angle told a story that didn’t sit right with him, the chill of dread creeping up his spine. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel for a moment before grabbing his phone, quickly dialing Sam.

The call connected after one ring.

“Sam,” Shiro started, voice clipped and urgent. “I’m at Allura’s place. Her front door is open, and it looks forced. Something’s wrong.”

There was a pause on the other end, followed by Sam’s tense response. “Don’t go in alone. Wait for backup, Shiro.”

“There’s no time,” Shiro replied, his tone brooking no argument. He stepped out of the car, his senses already on high alert. “I’ll update you as I go.”

Sam exhaled sharply, the frustration evident in his voice. “Fine, but be careful. Call the moment you find anything.”

“Will do,” Shiro confirmed before ending the call.

He approached the house cautiously, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling with the unnatural stillness surrounding him. His hand hovered near the weapon holstered at his hip as he pushed the door open slowly, the creak of the hinges echoing in the oppressive quiet.

The air inside felt heavier somehow, a suffocating kind of silence that pressed against his chest. His gaze swept the entryway, and his stomach dropped.

Allura’s wheelchair lay on its side, the metal frame gleaming faintly in the light spilling through the doorway. The sight sent a jolt of fear through him, his mind racing with possibilities. Where was she?

Shiro stepped further inside, his every sense heightened, his movements deliberate and soundless. His eyes scanned the room, cataloging every detail—the untouched shoes by the door, the faintly flickering overhead light, the absence of anything out of place besides the wheelchair.

The sound of his own heartbeat roared in his ears as he moved toward the hallway. A faint glow spilled from the kitchen, warm and inviting, but it felt wrong—like a trap waiting to spring.

He moved closer, his footsteps silent against the hardwood floor. As he reached the kitchen doorway, he stopped, his breath catching in his throat.

There, sitting on the counter as though it were the most natural thing in the world, was Matt.

He looked relaxed, his posture almost lazy, one leg swinging idly over the edge of the counter. His lips curled into a faint, infuriating smirk, and his sharp eyes glinted with amusement.

But it wasn’t just Matt that made Shiro’s stomach churn—it was the flowers.

Butterfly Weed. Begonia. Monkshood.

They hung around Matt in an ominous arrangement, their vibrant colors stark against the pale, sterile backdrop of the kitchen. The meanings of the flowers were clear, their message chilling: warning, danger, caution.

Shiro’s stomach twisted as the realization settled over him.

Matt reached up, his fingers brushing casually against the petals of a Monkshood flower near his shoulder. He didn’t speak immediately, his silence stretching out as he watched Shiro with a calm, unsettling patience.

“Matt,” Shiro cautioned, his voice low and steady despite the adrenaline coursing through him. “Where’s Allura?”

Matt tilted his head slightly, his smirk deepening. “I’ll talk,” he drawled as he twirled a flower between his fingers, the motion slow and deliberate. “But only if Dad’s here.”

Shiro’s jaw tightened, his hand twitching toward the weapon at his side. Before he could say anything else, the distant sound of sirens broke through the tension, growing louder as they approached.

The flash of red and blue lights spilled through the blinds as the SWAT team arrived in force. The heavy thud of boots against the ground echoed through the house as officers swept in with precision.

“Clear!” one of them called, his voice sharp and authoritative.

Matt didn’t move, didn’t resist, as they surrounded him. His smirk remained, infuriatingly calm, even as they pulled him off the counter and cuffed his hands behind his back.

As he was led out of the kitchen, Matt glanced over his shoulder at Shiro, his eyes glinting with dark amusement. “See you soon, Takashi,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only Shiro could hear.

--

The interrogation room was oppressively stark, the fluorescent lighting casting harsh, unforgiving shadows on the plain walls. The faint hum of electricity buzzed in the background, filling the uneasy silence. Matt sat casually at the metal table, his wrists cuffed to steel rings embedded in its surface. He leaned back in the chair, his posture relaxed, his smirk a maddening mixture of amusement and defiance.

Across from him, Sam loomed, his fists planted firmly on the table, the tension in his body palpable. “Where is she?” Sam barked, his voice slicing through the stillness like a whip. “Where is Allura?”

Matt let out a dramatic groan, tilting his head back like a bored teenager caught in a lecture. “God, Dad,” he drawled, his tone dripping with mockery. “I forgot how grating your voice is. Do me a favor and bring in someone easier on the ears. Shiro, maybe. He’s always been more... accommodating.”

Sam’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding audibly. His knuckles whitened as his grip on the table edge tightened, the muscles in his neck standing out against his skin. Without another word, he pushed back from the table, the chair scraping loudly against the floor as he turned and stalked out of the room.

Moments later, the door swung open again. Shiro stepped inside, his expression composed but his exhaustion evident in the faint lines around his eyes. He didn’t spare a glance for the camera in the corner or the mirrored observation window; his focus was solely on Matt as he took the seat across from him.

Matt’s grin stretched wider, his teeth catching the harsh fluorescent light as his eyes raked over Shiro with slow, deliberate intent. “Well, isn’t this a sight?” he drawled, his voice sliding into a low, playful purr that made Shiro’s shoulders tense. “One of us bound, the other in control… it’s almost nostalgic, don’t you think?”

He leaned forward slightly, the chains of his cuffs clinking softly against the table as he tilted his head, his gaze dropping pointedly before trailing back up to meet Shiro’s eyes. “Though, if I’m being honest,” Matt continued, his tone laced with something darker, something that twisted the air between them, “I’m used to us reversing the roles. You, at my mercy…” His lips curved into a knowing smirk. “Now that would’ve been fun, wouldn’t it?”

Shiro’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling into fists beneath the table as the air grew heavier. He refused to give Matt the satisfaction of a reaction, but the heat creeping up the back of his neck betrayed him. Matt’s grin only widened, a predator relishing its prey.

Shiro didn’t give him the satisfaction of a full reaction. His gaze remained steady, his voice sharp and clipped as he cut through the innuendo. “Where is Allura?”

Matt’s grin didn’t falter, but the gleam in his eyes turned sharper. He leaned back in his chair, the cuffs rattling faintly against the table as he shifted. “She’s alive,” he deadpanned, the words falling from his lips with an infuriating lack of urgency.

Shiro’s jaw tightened. “That’s not an answer.”

“Sure it is,” Matt replied with a lazy shrug, his tone as casual as if they were discussing the weather. “Just not the one you were hoping for.”

Shiro’s hands curled into fists under the table, his composure wavering just enough to show the strain. He took a slow, steadying breath. “You’re wasting time, Matt. Every second you stall puts her in more danger.”

Matt tilted his head, feigning contemplation. “Interesting theory,” he murmured. “But you’re operating under the assumption that I’m interested in saving time—or Allura, for that matter.” His gaze sharpened, and his smirk softened into something colder. “You think I care about helping myself? That’s adorable.”

“You’re not helping anyone,” Shiro growled, his voice low and tense. “Least of all yourself.”

Matt leaned forward slightly, the motion subtle but deliberate, the cuffs creaking as he moved. “Tell me, Takashi,” he purred. “Do you really think you know me anymore? Do you honestly believe you understand who I am, what I want?”

Shiro met his gaze head-on, his own voice steady but laced with frustration. “I know enough to see that you’re still trying to prove something—to me, to yourself. But whatever game you’re playing, it won’t end well.”

Matt’s smirk faltered, the mask slipping just enough to reveal a flicker of something colder beneath. He leaned back again, his expression unreadable. “You always did like to play the hero,” he whispered, almost to himself. “Still clinging to that, even now. It’s almost admirable.”

“Where is she?” Shiro demanded, his voice rising slightly, his patience fraying at the edges. “This doesn’t have to go any further. Just tell me where she is.”

Matt’s gaze locked onto his, unflinching, as the tension in the room thickened like a storm cloud. For a long moment, he didn’t respond. Then, with a faint, almost wistful sigh, he murmured, “You’re still trying to save me.”

Shiro’s brow furrowed. “Matt—”

“You really don’t give up, do you?” Matt interrupted, his voice tinged with something that might have been admiration—or pity. He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly. “I told you once before, didn’t I? I lost touch with reality a long time ago. And I don’t think the two of us ever reconnected.”

The words hit Shiro like a blow, cutting through the layers of deflection and banter with brutal precision. He stared at Matt, searching his face for any sign of the man he used to know. But all he saw was the same infuriating mask—the same enigma wrapped in layers of contradictions.

“You don’t have to do this,” Shiro said, his voice softer now, a thread of desperation slipping through. “You can stop this. You can still choose to do the right thing.”

Matt’s smile returned, but it was smaller now, tinged with something sadder, darker. “The right thing,” he echoed, the words rolling off his tongue like a foreign concept. He shook his head slowly, his gaze dropping to the table. “You really don’t understand, do you? This isn’t about what’s right. It’s about what’s inevitable.”

Shiro’s hands tightened into fists, his chest tightening as he tried to find the right words—the words that might finally break through. “Then help me understand,” he pleaded. “If you won’t do it for me, do it for her. She doesn’t deserve to pay for whatever this is.”

Matt’s eyes flicked back up to meet Shiro’s, their depths unreadable. For a moment, it looked as though he might say something—something real, something meaningful. But then the moment passed, and his smirk returned, colder and sharper than before.

“She’s alive,” he repeated, his voice devoid of emotion. “That’s all you need to know.”

Shiro exhaled sharply, his frustration threatening to boil over, but he forced himself to remain calm. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze never leaving Matt’s. “You’re still in there,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I know you are.”

Matt’s smile faltered again, but he didn’t respond. The silence stretched between them, heavy and oppressive, filled only with the faint hum of the fluorescent lights.